


On Painted Wing

by Arkan_Sonney



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Drama, Family Feels, Friendship, M/M, Romance, Thorin Oakenshield Is a Disaster, Thorin is a Softie, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:15:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 39,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26722762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arkan_Sonney/pseuds/Arkan_Sonney
Summary: It’s only marriage, they tell him, it’s not the end of the world.To save the Shire, Bilbo must venture to a faraway land and wed the Crown Prince of Erebor. He and his surly cousin Lotho—the very last hobbit you would expect—embark on a journey that will change the course of their lives forever. Along the way, they learn a thing or two about love, friendship, and the meaning of family.Fairy Tale AU based onThe Goose Girlby the Brothers Grimm
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 39
Kudos: 169





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: My first fic in a while, inspired by one of my favorite fairy tales—please enjoy and feel free to drop a comment! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I lay no claims to the work of Tolkien, Mary Oliver, or any other artist referenced in this fic. Many thanks to these writers, who inspire us to play with their characters and realms of fun and fancy.
> 
> WARNINGS for this chapter: Not much, other than a tiny bit of suggestive language in the italicized second letter (about 2/3 of the way through).

_You do not have to be good,_

_You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting,_

_You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves._

_Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine._

From _Wild Geese_ by Mary Oliver

* * *

Bilbo Baggins sits on his wooden bench in front of Bag End at precisely 4 o’ clock. Afternoon ritual dictates that he should be blowing smoke rings right about now, savoring the slow drag of Old Toby. Today, he inhales the familiar scents of his front garden in quiet contemplation instead, committing each chamomile and to memory. 

The Shire has struck terms with the King Under the Mountain at last, bargaining for Erebor’s protection from the looming threat of goblin mobs. With no warriors and no way to defend themselves, Thain Fortinbras Took and his council fear for their homes and livelihoods. Most of all, their people’s lives. 

When the first attacks began, the Shire Moot had appealed to the nearby Blue Mountain dwarrows for help. But alas, their mountainous neighbors stand on the brink of bitter civil war themselves and can spare no sentinels. Now, the peaceful halflings must turn to the far east in their hour of need. 

In return, Erebor’s king asks for relatively little: a single hobbit to serve as diplomat and advisor both. Someone who will share their innate knowledge of planting and oversee the kingdom’s newly-burgeoning farm project. That same someone will seal their alliance through matrimony, becoming consort to the heir of Durin. 

Bilbo bends down so that he may dig his fingers into the earth between the cracked stones that line the path to his mailbox. For once, he doesn’t mind if the soil lingers under his nails. This way, he will carry the smallest bit of home with him tomorrow when he says goodbye to the Shire for the very last time.

_It’s only marriage_ , they tell him, _it’s not the end of the world_. 

As far as his kinsmen are concerned, the Thain’s arrangement for Bilbo will fell multiple birds with one stone. After all, he is a bachelor with very little to tie him here, save the love of his younger cousins; better him than some poor unsuspecting lad or lass being dragged away from their parents and childhood sweetheart. If anyone in the Shire is eccentric (read: insane) enough to travel to distant and dangerous places, it’s probably Bilbo. 

Most of them mean well; they hate to see him grow lonely with naught but his armchair and books for company. Others call him Mad Baggins behind his back, on account of his stubbornly Tookish spirit. Very few of them are downright hateful.

Then, there is the perplexing mystery that is Lotho Sackville-Baggins. 

The lad’s mother and father have _ever_ _so generously_ offered to take care of the Baggins family home once he leaves the Shire; Bilbo begrudgingly signed over the deed to Bag End to them this morning. He would have expected their son to join them in their victory celebration, which they are no doubt having at this very moment. 

Instead, this surly young hobbit, barely out of his tweens, is perched next to him on the bright red cushion that adorns his bench. In his hands, he holds a small portrait of Bilbo’s groom-to-be, studying it intently. 

For the life of him, Bilbo does not know how this came to be. If you had told him the week before that the son of Lobelia and Otho Sackville-Baggins would be traveling with him halfway across Middle Earth, he would have laughed himself to bursting. As it turns out, Lotho is a closet scholar with a particular interest in geology; he finds the properties and profound symbolism of myriad minerals and metals as fascinating as Bilbo does the applications and meanings of flowers and herbs.

“That’s tiger’s eye, that is.” Lotho points out a pale green gem set in one of the prince's rings. Bilbo would have guessed emerald, for all he knows about rocks. “For keen aim in battle.” 

Bilbo sits up and glances at the portrait over his little cousin’s shoulder. The dwarrow to whom he is promised is not lacking in looks. He has a strong, noble bearing and a prominent nose, and his golden hair is done up with a selection of intricate braids bound with clasps and beads. He will not want for riches or beauty in his marriage, as his aunts and his cousins continuously remind him. Though he cannot argue there, he would like to point out that there is more to a marriage than such trivial things. Did no one value compassion or understanding or mutual respect anymore?

_Niceties alone do not warm one’s bed_ , Auntie Linda had laughed. He endured far too much teasing over his somewhat old-fashioned values. Sometimes, family is the worst.

“Are you really going to marry him?” Lotho asks suddenly, slowly dragging his eyes away from the painting. His overgrown tresses, dark and thick like his mother’s, are tousled around his back by the warm breeze.

“What choice do I have?” Bilbo grumbles sourly. 

Lobelia and Otho are without a doubt the most unpleasant relatives Bilbo has, but it occurs to Bilbo that he knows very little about their son. The lad is a bit of a recluse, and the pallor of his skin plainly says that he spends far too much time inside. That will be remedied soon enough, he supposes. 

He doesn’t understand why Lotho, of all hobbits, would volunteer to become Bilbo’s bagman. What does he stand to gain by traveling to lands unknown with a cousin he has seen only a handful of times since childhood? 

Bilbo means to ask him, but just then Gandalf the Grey arrives at the top of the hill. 

“Why so glum, dear Bilbo?” that wizard asks him as the three of them load Bilbo’s most essential belongings onto a sturdy cart. It takes Bilbo a long while to answer, overwhelmed by the finality of it all. He apologizes for his thoughtlessness, citing the loss of his extended family as a poor excuse. 

“Cheer up, Master Hobbit, for you are not alone. You will have more than one friend to accompany you on this adventure.” Gandalf’s eyes take on a glimmer of amusement as Bilbo and Lotho exchange glances. It is clear that they both agree on one thing, at least: “friend” is much too strong a term for the non-relationship between them.

The rest of the evening is a blur of magical shenanigans and last-minute packing. All the while, Lotho eyes Gandalf warily, as if the wizened sage might cast some evil spell upon him. 

Morning arrives too quickly, and before they know it, the Baggins cousins are making their final goodbyes. Lobelia’s lips are set in a firm pout for the duration of the parting ceremonies. Evidently, she is still cross with her son for making such a rash and hasty decision. Otho, for his part, says nothing other than a gruff demand that his son should return in time to sow the next Spring’s crops. They are a proud and stubborn lot; to make a fuss in public would be unthinkable. Bilbo imagines they shared their real, tearful goodbyes during the previous night, in the privacy of their home. 

Bilbo himself has no parents to see him off. He is accosted by a rowdy throng of secondary family and friends, who gift him treats for the road—and lewd suggestions for his wedding night. All of them tease him, except the polite and demure young Drogo. He and his heavily-pregnant wife, Primula, are the last to hug him before he mounts his pony. 

He looks back at them all with a sigh. He’ll miss the lot of them, questionable manners and all.

As Bilbo threads his hands into Myrtle’s long, shaggy mane, his troubles fade away for one brief, happy moment. He worries for Myrtle’s health during such a long journey as she is getting on a bit, but he could not bear to leave her. Bungo Baggins taught his son to ride her; she was his favorite pony. It would please him greatly to see the old girl accompany Bilbo to his new home.

As for Belladonna Took—well, Bilbo can hardly take her entire glory box with him. The physical memory he carries of his mother is a melancholy one: an embroidered handkerchief of her own design, with a few of his own very first stitchings intertwined. 

She had lived a long and full life, and for so long, Bilbo thought there was nothing that could ever bring her down. He was proven wrong by the death of his father, whose absence ate away at her spirit for eight long years. For her, the illness that claimed her life was more a blessing than a curse, setting her free to rest with her husband at last.

Three drops of blood remain in the kerchief; Bilbo has never been able to wash them out to this day. They, along with her needlework, stay with him always—the proof that she was a part of this beautiful world.

* * *

Within a few short days, the moment that Bilbo has been dreading most arrives; the next step he takes will be the furthest he has ever traveled away from home. 

The swarm of loss and bereavement he assumed would overtake him never comes to pass. Instead, he embraces his peculiar fantasies and long-buried desire for adventure. He will gladly accept the title of Mad Baggins so long as he may continue to see the world he has only dared explore within the safety of ink and parchment.

They leave the Shire’s rolling hills to cross raging rivers and traverse craggy mountain paths. The forests are wild and bright and alive, each one of them unfailingly beautiful. He is not alone in his enjoyment; Lotho may complain about the annoying and numerous discomforts of camping, but when the dark of night rolls around, he too is enchanted by the fireflies’ glow and nature’s songs. 

“Why did you come along?” Bilbo asks of him one night. They sit on opposite sides of a log, warming their hands by way of merry, crackling flames.

Lotho pauses, his gaze finally leaving the fire. “I was bored,” he answers flippantly.

Bilbo has to laugh aloud at that, in part because it may be the truth. He has learned a few things about his tight-lipped cousin these past weeks. For one, Lotho is _not_ a fan of Gandalf. The infamous firecrackers and dazzling spells that entertain most young hobbits hold no allure for his cousin. On the contrary, the tiniest spark of magic seems to set him off in a tizzy.

Like his father, he knows how to cultivate fine pipeweed, though the occupation was certainly not his first choice. To Bilbo’s pleasant surprise, Lotho too is an avid reader, though he prefers nonfiction. In addition to his studies of the land, he enjoys historical accounts about other peoples and the way they live their lives. He is far more cultured than Bilbo or anyone else ever bothered to give him credit for.

The elves and dwarrows they meet will appreciate that, Bilbo assures him, and it makes his tight-lipped cousin crack a half smile.

They blow smoke rings in something resembling companionable silence as Gandalf disappears to scout for the days ahead. Lotho’s mood shifts a bit as he surveys Bilbo. “They’ll love you, I expect.”

Bilbo blinks and pauses mid-drag. “Me?” He’s pretty certain that the variety of pipeweed they are smoking isn’t one that makes people prone to awful jokes. “Most dwarves are warriors and smiths, and I am neither. I do wonder why their prince wants to marry a hobbit in the first place. We’re as different as sun and rain!”

“They say all the Durins have odd taste,” Lotho counters with a shrug. “The youngest is married to an elven warrior maiden. It was a near-scandal.”

That’s another thing about Lotho; he hears _everything_. Not just the petty gossip, but the political goings-on of other places. It utterly fascinates him, so much that he picks up every bit of news he possibly can from the few travelers that enter the Shire. His sudden appearance on this trip makes a little more sense to Bilbo, seeing as he can learn about the world for himself, in person.

Bilbo doesn’t care for the idea of being paraded about by the dwarrow like some kind of exotic oddity. “Well, I’m not an elf,” he bites out, a little sharper than he intends. 

“That’s not the point,” Lotho retorts crossly, snuffing out his pipe with a bit more force than necessary. “Everyone likes you the second they meet you.”

The older hobbit’s cheeks pinken. He’s not completely oblivious as to how some hobbit lasses view him. In the years before his mother’s death, a considerable number of offers were made for his hand. His mother had rejected them all, seeing as Bilbo had never managed to connect with anyone in particular. One of the last things she had ever said to him was that she wanted him to live a life full of genuine love.

In the time following her passing, he held far too much grief to consider such things. After that, time simply got away from him, as it is wont to do. It seemed her parting wish would not be granted after all.

He squeezes her handkerchief in his fist. The drops of blood on it shine through in the firelight, as if to say _if this your mother knew, how her heart would break in two._

“Maybe a decade ago,” Bilbo says lightly. It won’t do him any good to dwell it now. He does not know how else to address his cousin’s statement, so he tries to turn the conversation away from himself. “What about you—are you leaving behind anyone special?”

Lotho’s scowl speaks volumes. “With this face?”

Suppressing a sigh, Bilbo takes a moment to really look at his younger cousin. For a while, he struggles to find a single physical similarity between them both. Lotho is a bit stocky, for a hobbit, and taller than most Fallohides. His lack of a belly speaks of skipped meals and nights wasting away reading by candlelight. He has developed some muscle from tending the farm; most of it clings to his arms and broad shoulders while his legs remain as thin as a chicken’s. It gives him the appearance of an upside-down pear, whose top teeters on a skinny foundation.

Lotho’s eyes are the color of bedrock and they are etched deep into his face. He also wears his hair much longer than most hobbit lads—and even some lasses. Some of the locks stubbornly cling to the sides of his face, reminiscent of the sideburns that Men are so fond of wearing. Bilbo can just imagine the knock-down, drag-out fights whenever Lobelia tries to cut it. 

Most of his features won’t win him any beauty contests, but neither do they render him entirely unappealing. Bilbo thinks his cousin could be considered quite winsome, if only he would smile a good deal more. He tells him as much, but the lad does naught but mutter bitterly. His expression is a well whose waters run deep with insecurity.

There is one notable defect: the smattering of red, puffy marks that appear as a near-permanent fixture on Lotho’s otherwise pale, clear face. The uncharitable moniker given to him by his peers—”Pimple”—is woefully apt. Bilbo knows better than to comment on the topic; any assurances he can offer will sound false to his cousin’s ears. He tucks his cousin’s worries away in the back of his mind for safekeeping and bids him a muted goodnight.

A few weeks later, they arrive in Rivendell. Bilbo is absolutely star-struck; one could lose themselves in trying to capture its ethereal beauty through poetry or art. There are not enough words or colors in Arda to do it justice. Oh, how he wishes this dazzling place was to be his new home. He could live here for all the rest of his days and never run out of new things to learn. 

The regal Lord Elrond and his gifted daughter Arwen welcome them graciously into their home. The elves make for wonderful hosts; they are flattered by the hobbits’ keen interest in their people and enthusiastically share their wealth of legends and songs. They indulge all of Bilbo’s questions about their people’s rich history with delight. He can tell that Lotho, too, burns with questions, though the lad takes a fair bit of prodding to use his words.

On the day before their departure, Lord Elrond delivers a carefully-wrapped parcel to Bilbo during afternoon tea (what a blessing it is, to have a respectable number of meals at the proper times). “Compliments of the King Under the Mountain.”

Carefully unlacing the gift from its wrappings, Bilbo reveals a chemise woven from blindingly beautiful metal that takes his breath away.

The Lady Arwen casts her eyes down on the mail with approval. “This relic was recovered from the horde at the Lonely Mountain retaking. Dwarrows value it above all other metal, and no sword may pierce it.” 

For such powerful armor, it is surprisingly light and smooth to the touch. Bilbo and Lotho eagerly drink in the sight of it. Even his learned cousin does not know its name.

Gandalf smiles and pats Bilbo’s hand. “Mithril. Erebor’s king shows great concern for your safety. He told me that he wished to send an armed guard to escort you, but I assured him it was best not to draw too much attention on the road. There are a great many enemies lurking beyond this last homely house.”

Bilbo is embarrassed to feel his eyes grow watery at the touching gesture. Choked with emotion, he dons it at once and vows to wear it with pride.

Next, Elrond passes on a message from Bilbo’s betrothed. He tries very hard not to grimace as he unravels the small scroll of parchment. If the royal family has sent such a thoughtful gift, then the prince himself might not be so bad.

> _Dear Master Baggins,_
> 
> _So, we are to be married come this Autumn! Isn’t that something? I’m sure you will bring many changes to our growing kingdom._
> 
> _This gift is a little something I made in the forge for your enjoyment—and a promise of more for our first night together. ;) I hope it is to your liking._
> 
> _I wish you and your journeymen a pleasant journey. I eagerly await your arrival and hope you do not perish on the road!_
> 
> _Yours truly,_
> 
> _~Fili_

_Brevity is the soul of wit,_ Bilbo thinks dryly. “‘I hope you do not perish’—what on Arda is that supposed to mean?” he recites with a measure of annoyance. “And a winking face? _Really?”_ Nuance be dashed. There go his buried hopes for a poetic and communicative lover, out the window.

Something shines and sticks out from the folds of the letter, a long red stone that Bilbo does not recognize. The shape of it rather reminds Bilbo of a double-sided axe, only with very smooth edges. Lotho eagerly snatches up both items as soon as Bilbo discards them. His cheeks turn ruddy and he chokes upon closer examination of the crown prince’s gift.

  
“What is it?” Bilbo asks. Manwë knows there are countless possibilities for its hidden meaning, as Lotho pointed out to him during one of their more academic conversations. Bilbo’s best guess is good fortune, or safe travels perhaps, keeping in theme with the mithril shirt. 

“Red jasper,” Lotho rasps, gingerly setting it back down on the table. Bilbo wants to ask what it means, but his cousin excuses himself from the table quite rapidly. The noble elves carry on with tea as if nothing out of the ordinary has occurred. Meanwhile, Gandalf laughs around his pipe, that confounding twinkle lingering in his eyes.

Both the letter and the stone are forgotten as Bilbo mourns the leaving of Rivendell. He takes solace in spending more time with Myrtle, whose whinnies provide more conversation than does their youngest travel companion. 

As they begin their trek through the Misty Mountains, Lotho takes to staring listlessly out at the horizon. There is something almost sad in his pewter gaze, and Bilbo wonders if he, too, misses the Shire. They head for the highest peak of the mountain range, bundled in their very warmest winter cloaks. Lithedays draw near, and still the snowdrifts here remain unyielding. 

As they pass the mouth of a small cave, Gandalf blocks the path with his staff, bringing the ponies to a sudden halt.

The mountain pass before them that serves as their only way ahead has been hollowed out like a cheese wheel desecrated by rats. Only a narrow passage is left, barely large enough to fit the wizard and his steed.

“Cut the ponies loose,” Gandalf commands. Both hobbits startle at his ominous tone and hurry to do what he says, abandoning the cart filled with their supplies and Bilbo’s belongings.

Something is very, very wrong.

Thunder crackles in the distance and stripes of lightning parade across the sinister sky. The mountain begins to quake beneath them, nearly sending Lotho tumbling off of his mount to certain death in the canyon below. He struggles to regain control of his terrified pony and Bilbo is faring no better with Myrtle.

“Goblins. Not a squadron—an entire horde.” The blood in Bilbo’s veins turns to ice. 

Gandalf’s face grows horribly bleak. His figure swells to an even larger height than before, posturing for the threat to come. He breathes inaudible words to the crystal in his staff so that it glows as fiercely as the lightning above them. Then he points it straight at Myrtle, who is bathed in a jet of golden light. 

“What in Aüle’s name is this!?” Lotho hisses, failing to entirely cover up the fear in his voice.

The wizard ignores him and addresses Bilbo. “Your steed will guide you, Master Baggins. Whatever you do, do _not_ lose that kerchief!” And then, he is brandishing his staff like a sword and sending a volley of unspoken spells into the mouth of the mountain. “The both of you, RUN!” 

Lotho obeys without question while Bilbo wavers for fear of his elderly friend’s safety. “Gandalf! What about you?” With magic, surely he can defend himself a far sight better than two halflings, but still—Bilbo can’t just desert him!

“ _ **Go!**_ ”

Myrtle moves without her master’s permission. Buffeted by the gathering storm, they race down the mountain. His pony takes over completely, whipping around the narrow twists and turns so fast that Bilbo might be sick.

They slow only once the end of the trail is nigh and has widened into an accommodating road. Back up at the top of the mountain, the storm rages on, but down where they are, the rain has calmed to a light sprinkling.

Lotho swears and scowls up at the sky. “Sodding hell.”

“ _Language!”_

Bilbo’s stomach drops. It was he who spoke, but not his own voice solely. He thinks he heard a second voice, a hauntingly familiar one. Too many years have passed since he last heard it to be sure. But—it’s impossible! He must be going mad.

His cousin gasps and his face goes white as a sheet. Bilbo’s is sure to match. “Y-your pony—” Lotho stammers, “—it spoke!”

Bilbo utters a shaky laugh. “That’s ridiculous,” he mutters. It’s understandable; they’ve just been through quite an ordeal and have possibly lost their wizened guide. Bilbo will gladly admit to being shaken, and apprehensive about the remainder of this whole journey in general.

“ _Is it?“ the_ voice says and Bilbo jumps a foot in the air. He moves as slowly as one would when wading through a vat of thick pudding, sliding off of his saddle to look up at Myrtle’s maw. 

Out of her mouth comes the voice of his father. “ _Hello, little one._ ”

And with that, Bilbo promptly falls to the ground in a dead faint.

* * *

When Bilbo stirs, the sky is moving. 

He has officially been on the road for so long that he does not immediately expect to wake to the sight of his bedroom in Bag End. But neither does he predict that he will wake to find himself being dragged along the ground by his father's pony, who is using his cloak as an impromptu

 _“You’re awake,”_ Myrtle says. She halts and bends down to help poor Bilbo get his bearings. He groans and takes a moment to orient himself, slowly accepting that, no, the day’s events have not been the crazed imaginings of a hyperrealistic daydream. 

Once the initial shock has worn off, he finds the whole thing rather fascinating. “So Gandalf enchanted you to speak. Could you understand what everyone was saying before? Before the spell, I mean.”

Myrtle paws at the ground with her hoof. _“In a way, yes. I have always been able to sense your joy, and your distress. Your wizard granted me an awakening; it is bound to a powerful spell that you carry. He also planted a map in my mind’s eyes to get you safely to your destination._ ”

There is no sign of Lotho or his pony, Bilbo realizes as he climbs back into the saddle. ” _The_ _oily one is gone,_ ” his steed murmurs.

“Can you read thoughts too?” he asks with wide eyes and Myrtle lets out a whinny of _laughter._

” _That_ _, I cannot. He slunk off some time ago.”_

They ride along smoothly for a time, until a figure appears in the distance. Remembering the looming goblin threat, Bilbo tenses, hyper aware of the fact that he is now alone and exposed. For the first time in his adult life, he wishes that he owned a weapon.

Thankfully (or maybe not so much) it is only his cousin returned. Bilbo’s glower burns hot as dragon fire. 

“I was scouting ahead,” Lotho says lamely. “There isn’t much of anything for miles.”

Bilbo fixes him with a withering look. “You left me here _unconscious!_ _”_

“ _You’ve_ got a talking pony!” Lotho counters.

He’s hopeless. Neither Bilbo nor Myrtle comment on Lotho’s little scouting trip. The pony side-eyes him distrustfully now and then.

Bilbo is more than a little hurt by his cousin’s thoughtlessness. It isn’t right to abandon a fellow in need if one can help it, and unthinkable should they be kin. Then again, they have never been very close, and Lotho had just been through a very trying experience. 

In the end, he came back, and that is good enough for Bilbo.

The sun is fading fast, and they do their best to make camp. They have lost almost all of their worldly possessions, save for the odds and ends stuffed into their knapsacks. The elvish bread will last them a while, but, as Lotho accurately ascertained, there is no sustenance to be gained in their surroundings.

They could light some of the dry brush, there is no wood around to keep a proper fire going. 

Darkness falls, but the night is young, and neither Bilbo nor Lotho find sleep easy in coming.

“Feels strange out here,” Lotho says. The eerie silence is too much, even for one so prone to silence.

“It’s too… open,” Bilbo hums in agreement. “Not a hill in sight.”

“ _We will reach a great forest tomorrow,_ ” Myrtle tells them. “ _And then on to meet your next host._ ”

The older hobbit perks up at that. “Perhaps Gandalf will meet us there! I do hope he’s alright.”

Lotho lets out an ugly snort. “You worry like an old nag.” Myrtle shoots him a dirty look at the barb. “Running us around goblins, magicking animals. He’s barmy.”

Bilbo suspects that Gandalf himself doesn’t quite know what he is doing sometimes, that he makes things up as he goes along. “He has his odd moments, yes, but he is a good friend. He knew my mother.”

Lotho grows quiet. “Your mother was… nice. I remember her watching us when I was little.”

Believe it or not, there was a time way back when Bilbo was a tween and Lotho a tiny fauntling, in which their families held a tentative truce. When Otho and Lobelia first married, they had been happy for a time. On occasion, they brought Lotho to Bag End for Bilbo’s mother and father to mind while they went on outings. Bungo would bake his famous pastries for all of them and Belladonna would recite the wildest tales. But then, for reasons unknown to Bilbo, Lobelia and Otho began to grow distant from their once-close family, drifting further and further apart with the winds of time. 

Bilbo and Lotho recall with a mixture of annoyance and fondness some of the pettier squabbles between their parents. There were ruined crops and cutlery involved, and a collection of choice words that neither of the young hobbits were ever meant to hear. 

The memories bring smiles to both of their faces, and Bilbo feels considerably better than he had before. “I know we’re not close, but can I ask you one small favor?” he probes. Lotho grunts in half-agreement. “When you get home… will you please give all my love to Drogo and Primula, and look in on them every so often? I shall be very sorry not to see their children grow up.”

Lotho peers at him quizzically. “You won’t ever go back to the Shire?”

Shifting on the tall grass that comprises his makeshift bedding, Bilbo exhales. “I would like to visit, if I can. But I’m not sure my—husband—will allow it.” He winces upon saying out loud. Dear Yavanna, but it makes it feel so real. 

This train of thoughts quickens the pace of Bilbo’s breathing. He is trying his best to stay calm, but Lotho has already caught on. “If you wanted to stay, you could have told the Thain to pick someone else.”

“What—and subject someone else to a loveless marriage to some dwarrow they’ve never met?” Bilbo retorts.

“You _would_ turn marrying a handsome prince into some dramatic tragedy.” If Bilbo had night-vision, he is pretty sure he would see Lotho rolling his eyes. His cousin makes a noise of disgust and turns in Bilbo’s general direction. “Think about it. You’re living out a fairytale dream; you’ll have the heir of Durin as your husband. How on earth can you think of that as a punishment? Did you not read that letter he sent? He _wants_ you.” His last sentence is punctuated with such passion it startles Bilbo.

“He doesn’t even know me!” Bilbo retaliates automatically. But he does take a moment to consider his young cousin’s words. “He didn’t write much. I suppose I could send him another letter, get to know him better... But what would I _say_?”

“I could help you,” Lotho offers, his voice high and light. He’s trying too hard for nonchalance.

Bilbo’s lips twist into a smirk. “Lotho Sackville-Baggins. I didn’t take you for a romantic.” 

“I’m not!” his cousin protests. “But you’ll probably ruin it, you and your stuffy old people poetry.”

Too amused to be offended, Bilbo laughs. He drifts off to sleep as content as he can be in the middle of nowhere. His only blanket is the midnight sky.

* * *

The morrow brings with it a crisp, strong wind. It helps to cool them off during the strongest heat of midsummer day. 

As Myrtle had promised, they near the forest just before nightfall. Lotho and Bilbo are in the midst of arguing whether they should continue further or bed down for the night when a wild howl answers for them.

A pair of pale, slitted eyes appear through the trees, then another. And another. They glimmer menacingly as they turn into great, hideous beasts and stalk towards the travelers.

“ ** _Wargs_** _!_ ” Myrtle cries, ripping her startled master away from danger.

They ride for their lives. Bilbo can barely hear anything above the roar of his own heartbeat. He holds on tight enough that the grip must hurt his beloved pony, but they are both far too terrified to care.

The wind carries them swiftly, but the wargs are soon gaining on them. Bilbo sees where Myrtle means to guide them: a wooden cabin in the distance. “There!” he cries out to Lotho. 

To safety, they race. The house grows bigger in its closeness, and Bilbo can make out the door. _Just a little further_ … Until the door bangs open wide and out of it pours forth yet another beast: a massive grizzly bear, its jaws an infernal, unending cavern. 

As the behemoth barrels towards them, Lotho cries out and rears his pony. Bilbo tries to do the same, but Myrtle forges ahead and passes right by it, unscathed. “ _That is our host!_ ” she shouts. 

The bear _is_ on their side. Bilbo looks back to see him chasing most of the wargs away from them; he drives all but two of them back into the woods.

Bilbo calls out into the wind, warning Lotho to follow before the remaining wargs catch him. They are getting far too close, and Lotho’s pony startles and bucks. The young hobbit loses his grip and falls with a bellow of pain. His pony disappears into the forest, leaving him at the mercy of those beasts. In minutes, they’ll overtake him. 

His body moves without his brain’s permission. Without the act of deciding, Bilbo has leapt off Myrtle’s back; his feet are carrying him towards his injured cousin as fast as they can possibly go. 

He reaches Lotho, who is bleeding and unconscious. The wargs are circling them now, baring knife-like claws and razor-sharp teeth. Bilbo throws himself over Lotho, prepared to act as a human shield. 

Praise to the stars above he doesn’t have to, because Myrtle has rallied to their side. She kicks at the closest warg to ward it off, but the beasts are so large that she cannot hold them off for long. With a burst of strength fueled purely by adrenaline, Bilbo hoists his cousin onto the saddle. “Go! Take him,” Bilbo commands feverishly. Her whinny holds a note of panic, but she does as he says, and Bilbo is left to face the two remaining wargs alone.

He has no weapon, no hope of outrunning them. The creatures’ teeth might not be able to pierce the mithril, but his face and neck; they could break him in one sickening crunch. Bilbo ransacks his pockets for something, anything that can help him. He finds the red jasper and holds it up high in the air, aimed at the closest warg. “I’m warning you, stay back!” he yells, hurling the projectile at one big yellow eye. 

It misses its target, bouncing uselessly off of the monster’s snout. The wolves look at each other and let out sinister barks reminiscent of mocking laughter. They resume their circling, and Bilbo thinks, _this is the end_. He braces himself for the inevitable pain and then—

A jovial whoop sounds in the night. Flashes of fur materialize before Bilbo’s eyes. Both wargs are chasing the intruders in an instant, whatever it may be. Bilbo doesn’t care to stay and puzzle it out; he runs straight for the cabin from whence the great bear came. 

Myrtle is waiting for him; as soon as he bursts through the door, she slams her weight against it and it bolts shut. Bilbo slides to the hay-covered floor, his breath coming in great, heaving gasps. 

It takes a long while for his heartbeat to even out into a normal rhythm. Once he is able, he crawls across the floor to assess his cousin. Lotho has lost some blood, but he will recover. Bilbo tears off strips from the bottom of his undershirt sleeve—the cleanest fabric available—to wrap the wound. He and Myrtle leave him to rest as they wait in total silence.

Some time later, their host returns. Instead of a bear, he appears as a very large Man named Beorn, who can change into different forms. He confirms that the wargs are gone and can no longer hunt them so long as they remain on his land. His friends, the wild animals of these fields and woods, stand guard around the perimeter, and they will warn if any enemies should try to strike again.

Beorn redresses Lotho’s wound properly and offers Bilbo and Myrtle food from his stores. Bilbo finds he has no appetite, but he gratefully sips at a mug of warm mead. 

About an hour later, there is a knock at the door and in pops a queer little man dressed in brown. His head is adorned with berries and twigs, and he looks a bit touched in the head, if Bilbo is honest. He proclaims his name to be Radagast and explains that Bilbo has his colony of Rhosgobel rabbits to thank for his life. As it so happens, he too is a wizard, and upon hearing such news Bilbo urgently inquires as to whether he knows Gandalf the Grey.

Bilbo is overjoyed to learn that his friend lives; Radagast is on the way to meet him, in fact. They have wizards’ work to do, never Bilbo mind, and so sadly the hobbits’ pilgrimage to Erebor must continue without him.

Radagast is gone by the time Lotho wakes, which is probably for the best. The brunette’s head aches and he is groggy, unable to remember much of what transpired. Bilbo tells him the abbreviated version of the attack, one which severely downplays his own heroics.

“I do believe the worst is behind us,” he concludes, gently squeezing the lad’s arm in what he hopes is a heartening gesture.

Over the coming days and nights, they sleep under a roof and eat at least three meals. Beorn grudgingly lets them sample his honey cakes (to die for—Bilbo simply must have the recipe!) and Lotho partakes in a disgusting quantity of sheep’s milk—which Bilbo politely declines. The shapechanger’s lodgings do wonders for both hobbits’ moods. They must wait until Lotho’s wound has completely healed before setting out again, a fact Bilbo is grateful for.

One afternoon, Lotho asks Beorn if there is any way to send a letter. To his delight the skinchanger’s fowl friends are as swift as they are intelligent. Roäc, chief of Ravenhill, agrees to exchange deliveries to and from Erebor within the fortnight.

“You still want me to write to him?” Bilbo sighs, pulling out Fili’s letter so that he may refer to it. He scribbles a few different beginnings on a parchment, with Lotho peering over his shoulder all the while. They argue for a bit— _no, Bilbo, you can’t write about the weather in a love letter!—_ and in the end, he lets his cousin take over the draft, throwing his hands up in the air with frustration.

“Do—do you have the stone he sent?” Lotho bites his lip, his face turning as scarlet as the jasper in question. Bilbo confesses that he lost it, and the younger hobbit’s mouth sags in disappointment. No, he doesn’t look forward to telling his betrothed exactly how he had lost it either. Some warrior he tried to be.

Bilbo leaves the rest to his cousin and goes outside to spend some time with Myrtle. It makes him happy to see her enjoy the warmth of the sun out on Beorn’s lush pastures. She does not speak as much when they are off of the road, having no need to guide him. Bilbo frets that Gandalf’s spell may wear off, not because they need her guidance, but because he fears losing the sound of her voice—and the memories it stirs.

“ _I am here for you, little one,_ ” she soothes him gently. “ _Always._ ”

When Lotho is finally done with the letter, he rushes outside to send it off with Roäc before Bilbo can even approve. His cousin's storm-grey eyes sparkle with a rare expression of satisfaction; promises that Bilbo’s intended will _not_ be displeased with the results.

Myrtle eyes Lotho warily, and the answering look is mutual. Afterwards, when Lotho has retreated into the cabin, she fixes Bilbo with a curious stare. “ _He does not know you saved his life._ ” 

Carefully untangling her matted mane, Bilbo shrugs his shoulders. “That’s what you do for family, isn’t it?”

Before making dinner, he and Lotho wash up in a nearby stream. The great bear and his friends stand guard from a safe distance. 

The moment that Lotho catches a glimpse of his own reflection, his dismay is palpable, and it takes Bilbo a long moment to figure out why. His cousin’s pimples have grown in number, taking the red, inflamed appearance of one who has been stung by an army of bees. They must have worsened considerably since the last time Bilbo deigned to notice them, or perhaps he had become so used to the sight of his cousin’s face that he had simply forgotten their existence. Whatever the case, they are a source of great pain and misery, so much so that Lotho buries his face in his hands. Bilbo tries to soothe him, but the young man shakes off his concern and runs back into the house, leaving him alone yet again.

By a stroke of luck (and his parents’ as well), Bilbo has had no noticeable acne since before his tween years; more than one of his hobbit lass relatives has expressed jealousy over his clear complexion. Though he himself has never had need of them, Bilbo remembers the distinct scent of the tonics they brewed and used to clear their own outbreaks. 

Wild roses are not too terribly hard to come by on Beorn’s large stretch of land. He boils some water from the well to recreate the tonic and politely asks their host if he may borrow a spare bottle. Then he gifts it to his cousin with instructions to dab it on his face at least twice a day, and that mollifies the angsty brunette for a while.

Beorn sees them off two days later. He recovered Lotho’s pony from the forest, for which the younger hobbit praises his lucky stars. Bilbo doesn’t think Myrtle could have handled carrying the both of them, even without the added weight of extra supplies. All this travel and running for their lives has taken its toll on her. He does not miss the way she gazes longingly out over the field, and for an instant, Bilbo asks himself whether it would be better to leave her here, that she remain among Beorn’s animal friends.

In the end, he cannot bring himself to do it. The last leg of their journey fast approaches anyway; soon, they will arrive at their new home, and Bilbo will personally see to it that Myrtle lives out her golden years in comfort and luxury.

Into the forest they go. They are not alone for long; a merry elf lad with white-blond hair gracefully descends from a tree onto the path before them. He introduces himself as Legolas, son of King Thranduil and Crown Prince of the Greenwood.

During their walk to his father’s kingdom, he admits to volunteering as their personal escort for his own gain; he wishes to know all there is to know about hobbits before they are accosted by the rest of the elven court. His subjects are more curious about theirs than Lord Elrond’s had been, having ever seen so few of them this side of the Misty Mountains.

Bilbo chats with him happily, interjecting with questions of his own. He learns that Legolas is far more enthusiastic about the treaties between Erebor and the Shire than his father. The elves of Greenwood and the dwarrows of Erebor have a much less fraught relationship now than they did in years gone by, he explains. Thranduil still sulks over the loss of his best guard captain, whose heart was won by the youngest Durin prince. 

Legolas himself had reservations, seeing as Captain Tauriel is one of his dearest friends from childhood. But he is happy for the couple now, and finds their mutual love for the stars to be sickeningly adorable.

“What kind of dwarrow enjoys stargazing?” Lotho sniffs in disapproval. “Shouldn’t he stick to studying things of more substance—you know, like the earth we live on?”

“Well, his highness Kili is something of a peculiar dwarf—and an ugly one too,” the elvish prince whispers, wrinkling his long and dainty nose. “His red-headed cousin, on the other hand…”

Bilbo rolls his eyes and leaves the youths to their idle gossip, urging Myrtle further down the path. He is impatient to see how the forest elves’ kingdom compares to the waterfalls of Rivendell.

They couldn’t be more different, he soon discovers. He is no less impressed by the marvel that is Thranduil’s spiraling treetop tower palace. The elven king welcomes them with a preposterous level of flourish and ceremony. Apparently, they are meeting him on one of his good days.

The woodland elves’ taste in food proves to be healthy and hearty at the same time, and even better is their selection of wine. Just as Legolas promised, the next few nights and days are a blur of asking and answering more questions. Bilbo doesn’t mind; he is glad to share the Shire’s customs, though he doesn’t understand the elves’ vapid fascination. It cures a little of his homesickness and makes him feel as though he has carried a piece of the Shire with him, though he has little left from home to call his own.

Home. Just that one little word sends a bevy of affection blazing through his chest for the familiar image it conjures. No, Bilbo cannot yet reconcile the idea of awarding such a revered title to any place that is not Bag End.

What will it be like, the dwarven kingdom? He has picked up pieces during their travels, and he is not so ignorant as to assume Erebor is all hollow halls and cold stone. Whatever place he should occupy within its palace halls are sure to have the comforts one could want in a home, even if they differ greatly from his parents’ smial. He no longer yearns so much for his armchair, nor his lovely collection of things. Even now, if they could possibly recover the cart from the Misty Mountains, he’s not sure he would want to. Maybe it’s better this way, instead of trying to make Erebor into something it is not; it could never be the Shire.

Though it would be nice to still have a few tangible belongings, Bilbo carries with him the very most important things. One of them happily munches on a buffet of apples outside next to Thranduil’s magnificent stag. The other lies tucked away in Bilbo’s breast pocket. 

Bilbo pulls out his mother’s handkerchief and smoothes his thumb over the careful stitching, taking comfort in its silky touch. “Gandalf told me not to lose you,” he murmurs absentmindedly.

Legolas scrutinizes the fabric from his seat at Bilbo’s left side, bright eyes widening a fraction. “A powerful spell lies on this token, one of the strongest I have seen cast by a mortal. Take Mithrandir’s advice to heart.” At this, the hobbit snorts. No doubt the elven prince is taking the mickey out of him; Bilbo’s mother had been skilled in a great many things, but a sorceress she was not.

Taking an interest in his son’s conversation partner, King Thrandiul tops off Bilbo’s goblet with elderberry wine. If he insists on making any more toasts tonight, they will all suffer ear-splitting headaches come morning. 

“Good halfling, why do you wear armor at my table? Do you not feel safe within our halls?”

He had nearly forgotten about the mithril, so used to its touch and barely-there weight as he has become. It pokes out far beneath his coat like a silver skirt, visible for all to see. He savors its closeness to his skin, the way it surrounds him like an ever-present hug. 

“Tis a gift from Erebor’s king,” Bilbo answers softly. He takes a generous gulp of the wine, which should excuse the pleasant flush in his cheeks. “I’m _unstabbable_!” he declares and raises his glass. A throng of laughter erupts from the table.

With a devious smirk, Legolas goads his father into telling the story of how their forest was almost disfigured into a murky, evil swamp some years ago— _almost._ Without the timely intervention of Durin’s Folk, their kingdom would be unrecognizable today. His successful bait sends Thranduil into a right state of denial; he insists on setting the record straight, lest their guests leave with the wrong impression of elvish history. A theatrical performance follows; there are fierce warriors and giant spiders involved, and far too many sparkly costumes. The bits and pieces Bilbo retains are fuzzy at best, for he is soon drunk under the table along with half of their hosts.

At breakfast the next morning, Bilbo makes a point to stick with tea and fruit juice, having indeed regretted his indiscretions during the previous night. The unflappable elven king smirks and warns that if he could not handle one such headache, the coming feasts of Lithetide are sure to prove even worse. The days are growing longer, and midsummer is nearly upon them; he politely encourages Bilbo to move on before the bulk of the festivities begin. 

When Lotho finally joins them, Bilbo’s eyes find his cousin with concern. Come to think of it, the lad had departed quite early from the welcome festivities. He rushes to inquire whether Lotho is alright or if he too stirred late from the aftereffects of fine wine.

Lotho frowns and clarifies that he did not partake in the unabashed drinking. “It does strange things to people,” he grumbles, motioning with his head towards Legolas. The young elf’s eyes are bleary as he enters the room and takes a seat beside his father. Thranduil makes a show of fussing over and hand-feeding his son (despite the fair-haired prince’s embarrassed protests); he blames Legolas’ lack of constitution on himself.

“Bit of an overbearing gaffer, isn’t he?” Bilbo whispers to his cousin conspiratorially, taking nostalgic mirth in the sight of Thranduil’s dramatic overindulgence. 

Lotho shrugs. His answering half-smile is unreadable as usual. “At least he cares.”

One of Thranduil’s messengers interrupts their meal briefly to deliver to correspondence from Bilbo’s betrothed. Legolas teases that the dwarrow prince appears anxious to meet him. The letter is noticeably lengthier this time.

> _My dearest_ mizimel,
> 
> _I’ll admit, I am surprised (and impressed)—I did not expect you to understand the many facets of your gift. I had simply intended to show you, in person, its particular uses. Do not fret over its loss; I will craft you many more, in all the colors, shapes, and sizes you desire._
> 
> _Now that I know we are of the same mind, I lie awake yearning. Knowing that you would use the work of my hands, I imagine you flushed and struggling to ride, panting as my jasper idol slips in and out of your—_

_Oh._ There goes Bilbo’s stomach, yet again. _Oh my._

Bilbo squeaks and drops the letter as though it has caught fire. His eyes have flickered far enough down the page to get the gist of this very graphic and lengthy description. He tries desperately to block out the images that those words evoke.

Being one part Took and one part Baggins, Bilbo is not entirely innocent to the goings-on of married couples. He shared a few kisses and experimental fumblings with a few lads and lasses in his youth. Yes, of course, he idealizes the delights of the wedding night as much as the average hot-blooded bachelor. But he wants to be wooed first, dammit! 

He cannot bear to read the remainder of such brazen writing, to have it spelled out there in ink for all of Arda to see. Yavanna have mercy, he has to wonder what on earth Lotho wrote. Surely, the lad couldn’t have meant to elicit such a response...

On second thought, he doesn’t want to know. He is far too mortified to look his cousin in the eye, let alone ask for details in front of their hosts. When he gets up to throw it on the flames of Thranduil’s fireplace, Lotho pleads for him to reconsider. He insists that it would be a heinous slight against Prince Fili to burn something written in his own hand.

Bilbo listens, but he refuses to let his cousin see the filthy script. He crumples it up and buries it at the bottom of his knapsack, creating as much distance between it and himself as possible. If Fili _is_ insulted, no matter. There will be plenty of time to clear up any heated misunderstandings with him in person. That, and make sure that nothing like this _ever_ happens again.

Hours later, Legolas accompanies them out of the forest. He takes his leave once when they hit the scenic trail that wraps around the River Running. The safety of the Greenwood’s dense canopy disappears far too fast, unveiling one lone mountain on the horizon not too far off in the distance.

The sight of it sends a jolt of panic to Bilbo’s gut. Up till now, he has been able to blissfully ignore the reality of what will happen in a few weeks time. There are no more long stops remaining, no more elvish palaces or fascinating hosts to distract him. Nothing to stand between here… and his entire future.

Bilbo makes excuses to tarry at every possible opportunity. He needs to adjust the saddle bags with supplies the elves had given them. ‘Oh look, there is a bush full of perfectly ripe berries over there.’ ‘Are we going the right way?’ ‘We should stop for tea.’ ‘Myrtle might be thirsty!’ ( _‘I am not. And_ you _are stalling.’)_

Lotho grows testy with Bilbo as well, his hair-covered foot thumping impatiently upon the ground. His cousin offers a half-hearted apology for his behavior as they fill their canteens with fresh water. In an effort to cheer him up, Bilbo remarks that the bumps and scars on his face have lessened notably.

“Oh?” Lotho puffs in surprise, angling his face over the water for a better look. “The tonic—it worked!”

As Bilbo leans over with him, the embroidered kerchief comes loose from his breast pocket. He reaches out to catch it, but his fingers capture thin air. He cries out in bleak dismay as it falls away onto the water’s wild waves and practically falls into the river in his haste to reclaim it; only Lotho’s grip on the back of his jacket prevents him from jumping in.

“You’ll drown, Bilbo! The current is too strong and there are rapids up ahead.” 

They watch it fly down the River Running and Bilbo’s heart sinks as it disappears from sight. Lotho pats his back awkwardly, and suggests that they be on their way, but Bilbo is frozen in place for one long moment. Tears spring from his eyes at the loss of his mother’s final parting gift. 

That was it. Everything he ever owned is gone. He will enter stone halls without a single thing to carry with him, to pretend he can make some foreign place his own. 

The vestiges of his life have been caving in him ever since they left the Shire, and this is the final straw. “ _I’m sorry, Mum,"_ he whispers. The sound is lost to the wind, same as her token. For one fleeting moment, he wonders what it would be like to follow it and float away.

Myrtle’s presence is the one thing that forces him to turn around. She is a beacon to him now, the rock to which he clings. He weeps into her long, raggedy mane, and presses his face against her strong, sturdy flank. “I still have you, and that’s what matters,” he murmurs, half to her, half to himself. “Won’t you say something, sweet girl?” he asks, wishing more than ever for the comfort of her enchanted voice, so like his father’s. “Please?” The chestnut pony provides comfort with touch rather than words, her suede-soft head leaning into his shoulder. “ _Please_ ,” he implores.

“Your beast isn’t speaking,” his cousin notes, not unhappily.

“Myrtle?” Again, he is answered by silence. “Oh, no no no, say something!” Panic laces Bilbo’s voice, his distress doubled. He clutches tightly at her hair, and the sound that escapes her muzzle is naught but an unintelligible neigh. “I’m sorry, girl,” he groans miserably, shaking his head. “Gandalf’s spell must have worn off.”

“Good,” Lotho mutters, “It was kind of creepy,” 

“Wait...” There is something in Myrtle’s eyes, the same extra intelligent light that had been there since Gandalf first implanted the map and the voice in her mind. “...I think she can still understand us.” Sure enough, Myrtle nods emphatically.

Lotho pales, grumbling something dour, but all Bilbo cares about is the fact that he still has his sweet steed in this capacity. The younger hobbit will certainly be glad of her wisdom when they need directions.

By the time they reach the lake, sundown is nearly upon them. Bilbo squints to see a boat in the distance and looks around to determine whither it came from. The road splits into a fork near the water’s edge, but there is no clear signage to be had.

“Which way, girl?”

Myrtle’s head flicks sharply to the right, and they have their answer. They continue along the path until they arrive at a small dock, devoid of people or boats.

“We missed it!” Lotho complains, reading the ferry schedule on a warped wooden sign. “Now we have to wait until tomorrow, and it’s another two days by caravan where the stream is too shallow.”

Bilbo’s exhale is not upset in the least. “I suppose we’ll just have to make camp here, then?” 

“If you hadn’t made us stop so many times, we would have been halfway to Esgaroth by now. With food and a bed to boot.” Lotho’s glare is hard and accusatory. “You did this on purpose!”

“I did not!” Bilbo objects. Truly, he hadn’t meant to delay them an entire night; he had simply gotten lost in his thoughts during their ride is all. Lotho proceeds to list all the unnecessary stops they have taken over the hours.

Alright. Hearing his younger cousin frame his actions as such out loud _did_ make them sound a little ridiculous. Maybe they started that way, but then there was the loss of his mother’s handkerchief and Myrtle’s voice...

Lotho mutters something that sounds like ‘ _unbelievable_ ’ as he tethers his pony to a nearby tree and sits down in front of it, arms crossed. Bilbo kills time by rummaging through his supplies for snacks. He doesn’t notice that Lotho is reaching into his bag, until the sound of parchment being straightened out brackets his ears.

The younger hobbit’s eyes grow comically wide, and the tips of his ears take up the shade of ripe pink lady apples. Bilbo scrunches his eyes closed, open, closed again, wishing he could unsee the fraction of the letter that he had read. When Lotho’s face becomes visible once more, his expression is incredulous, which Bilbo supposes is better than the downright gut-stabbing mortification he might have expected. But then—then, his face turns red and he positively beams.

“Don’t tell me you encouraged this!” Bilbo doesn’t remember the last time he spluttered so much. His indignation gets the better of him. “Are you mad!? Now the prince is going to think _I_ wrote those things. And he—”

“You said you wanted poetic,” Lotho grouses, “and this _is_ poetry. Of a sort.” At that, Bilbo rolls his eyes toward the sky. “Look, you didn’t even read the end. This word, here, it means ‘treasure of all treasures,’ and this—”

Bilbo cuts him off with an aggravated whine. How can Lotho speak so glibly of these things? It’s going to be hard enough adjusting to a new place and new people, let alone dealing with a husband who will assuredly assume a few problematic things about him, thanks to his cousin.

“If I were you,” Lotho says thickly, “I would swim across the lake right now to be there tonight.”

“Why don’t _you_ marry him, then!?” Bilbo yells. It is the first time he has raised his voice above an agreeable volume in who knows how long. He doesn’t care if his cousin thinks he is acting like a churlish fauntling. His head hurts and his throat is starting to get sore and he doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. 

It isn’t even about the dratted bawdy letters, not when the Lonely Mountain looms in the distance and yet still far too close. It is no longer a mere idea, or the goal of their long-suffered quest. This is the rest of Bilbo’s life.

He beds down next to a silent Myrtle, drinking in the night sky above him. He would much rather talk to her than to his unreasonable cousin right now. Bilbo misses her voice, his father’s voice. It was wonderful to behold for the short while that he had it. So many years had passed since then, he had almost forgotten the sound. Dreams of his childhood soon take hold, and Bilbo imagines them dancing together among the stars before sleep claims him.

* * *

Bilbo’s head is pounding. It feels as though someone stuffed his face with cheese. His limbs are heavy from movement he has not authorized.

Lotho has no bedside manner at all. Zero. He pulls Bilbo onto the morning’s first barge, which blessedly has enough space for them and their ponies. Bilbo spends the majority of the ride leaning over the side of the boat, hurling whatever contents of Thranduil’s feast were left in him into the lake. There is too little room for conscious thought in his head to remind himself to remind his cousin to tip the ferryman extra for putting up with his retching.

When his stomach finally quiets, another symptom takes its place. Bilbo slowly—painfully—tilts his head to look up at Myrtle. The exchange they share is one of commiseration, for they have both been reduced to pitiful silence.

Bilbo gladly lets his cousin do all the talking and dealing with the caravan bound for Erebor. His throat is so sore, nothing he says would be comprehensible anyway. His cousin arranges for Bilbo to hitch a ride on the back of a merchant’s empty cart, which means he can sleep through most of the crossing.

Lotho grumbles through it all, but he pours Bilbo a steaming mug of tea and fetches him soup from the kindly dwarrowdam leading the caravan. Bilbo winces in protest when he makes to remove the mithril shirt, but he gives up the fight easily. As light as it is, the garment is still armor, and it adds extra weight on the poor hobbit’s already-taxed lungs.

It is probably delirium from the illness setting in, but Bilbo feels nearly grateful. Being knocked out for the rest of the trip allows him to blissfully ignore all thoughts of his inescapable future.

Sadly, he is not in a fit state to truly appreciate the splendor of Erebor when they arrive. He struggles to keep steady on his saddle during the short ride to the palace from the caravan’s drop-off point at the city gates. 

They stop at the bottom of a massive set of steps in a wide open courtyard. There are scarcely any trees for Bilbo to sit underneath, that he might take shelter from the blazing sun. A dwarrow with frizzy grey hair—dear lord, is that a piece of an _axe_ sticking out of his head!?—takes their ponies away, to be stabled presumably.

“I’ll handle it,” Lotho tells him quietly. Well someone had better, because Bilbo can hardly stand. He lowers himself shakily onto the bottom step while his cousin ascends the stairs to address the awaiting royal party. What a fine impression he’ll make, on the very first day. He’s a sniveling mess and can still barely speak, let alone make a presentable entrance. 

Dare he look up? Bilbo decides it is best to take his first look from this far away, give himself time to get over the initial shock. He’ll have to get used to things sooner or later, not the least of which being the sight of the dwarrow is going to marry in less than two moons.

Bilbo has to squint to see his cousin, who is talking to a fair-haired dwarrow. He blinks at the familiar shine of silver-white metal peeking out beneath his cousin’s coat. Why is Lotho wearing the mithril?

He can’t tell what they are saying or why it’s taking so long, but he silently begs his cousin to draw out their conversation as long as hobbitly possible. They embrace, to Bilbo’s faint surprise. Then again, Lotho is far more educated on dwarvish customs than himself. He looks away at last and rubs his face, waiting as the moments fly by with agonizing swiftness. 

The sound of footsteps make Bilbo pale. He jerks around and subsequently hisses in pain when his head throbs once more. Praise the valar, his cousin has returned with someone other than the prince in tow: an older dwarrow with frizzy grey hair and a bulky medicine bag on his hip.

Bilbo tries to introduce himself, but his throat simply isn’t cooperating. “Look at the state of him!” the dwarrow bemoans.

“His memory is a bit addled from being on the road,” Lotho interjects sympathetically. “He’s been delirious since we passed through Laketown; don’t be surprised if he says some—off-color things.”

Bilbo doesn’t remember having delusions, but then, he hasn’t been himself. Did he manage to talk in his sleep while they traveled? Oh, valar, no.

“I’ll give him a tonic, Master Baggins, and he’ll be right as rain in a jiffy. Then we’ll see about living arrangements. Is there anything else you require, my lord?”

“Thank you, Healer Oin, you are too kind.” Lotho casts a worried look behind him. “Actually, there is one troubling concern. The pony mare that accompanied us here… She is very unwell.” 

Bilbo’s throat constricts and his eyes search wildly for his beloved steed. Has she fallen ill too?

“The poor thing is so old,” Lotho continues, rife with false concern. “She has not been the same since a conjurer’s evil spell took hold of her on the road. I saw it myself.”

“Understood, my Lord-Prince. I will have our horsemaster see to it that the poor beast meets a swift end.”

Bilbo tries to call out, his voice hoarse with disuse. No. No, this can’t be happening. He can’t be hearing things right. He’s delusional from this illness, that must be it.

“He is quite attached to her,” Lotho says somberly, his face a cruel imitation of sincere contrition. “I shall be sorry to part them, but it’s for the best.”

Why? How could Lotho do this to her? Sweet, wonderful Myrtle, who guided him all the way here from the Shire.

“Your consideration speaks highly of you, young lord. Please, return to our young prince’s side; I will take care of the poor lad.”

No. They can’t do this to her; she is an innocent creature! Bilbo doesn’t care what happens to himself, but not her, not _her_!

He has to stop them, no matter what. He screams, curses, cries—but his throat produces no sound. They have been silenced, he and Myrtle both.

Bilbo is dragged away into the dark, cold stone of a mountain chamber, kicking and writhing uselessly against an arm strong as steel and a fate he cannot prevent until the scent of something bittersweet hits his nose, and then he is _falling falling falling_ into the deepest, darkest slumber.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Theatrical Thranduil strikes again! Legolas is actually a cheeky gossip, you can’t convince me otherwise. And, yes, I made fun of the AO3 character minimum thing, lol.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed. ^_^ Next chapter coming soon!
> 
> Special thanks to AuroraBorealia, bestie and beta reader extraordinaire. This fic would not be possible without your tireless grammar-combing efforts. Much love! <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you to everyone for your lovely comments and kudos. <3 This installment is pretty packed, as is the longest of all three. Buckle in for some major drama, mwahahahaha. On with the show!  
> 
> 
> WARNINGS for this chapter: anxiety and panic attack symptoms, mentions of past abuse, slightly graphic nightmare imagery  
> 
> 
> Music for this chapter: I have this song linked below at its proper place in the story (when Thorin starts playing), but here is the link if you want to have it open beforehand: ♪ [Thorin's Lyre Piece](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nmExqfKa1Uc) ♪
> 
> Another song linked later on (Bifur’s ridiculous joke clarinet solo). For this one, you do *not* need to listen along with that part of the chapter. In fact, for the sake of your poor ears, just play like 30 seconds of the video and you’ll get the gist. xD Totally optional, just for funsies: ♪ [Bif’s Solo - Shittyflute](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h_gD45ngr_E) ♪

* * *

_Meanwhile, the world goes on,_

_Meanwhile, the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes,_

_Over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers,_

_Meanwhile, the wild geese, high in the clean blue air are heading home again._

~From _Wild Geese_ by Mary Oliver

* * *

Light turns the view behind Bilbo’s eyelids red and yellow. The familiar indication of morning fills him with a sense of calm. Because if he is waking with the sun, he must be back in Bag End, or back on the road somewhere—anywhere but Erebor. That means the excruciating jumble of memories flooding his mind through the night were all part of a very vivid nightmare.

When his eyes open, he sees a ceiling made of stone.

Panic suffuses him. Bilbo sits up too quickly and suffers greatly for it, his breath coming in short, labored pants. He is dying, surely. 

His subsequent moan alerts the attention of a mustachioed dwarrow with kind brown eyes and a fuzzy hat. “Oh, there you are, thank Mahal! Yeh stirred so little in yer sleep, we thought yeh’d gone to—wherever your people go. Y’know, when they cross over.” 

Not dead, then. That fact relieves Bilbo far less than it should. 

“Name’s Bofur,” the dwarrow says cheerfully, offering Bilbo a glass of something purple and dreadful-smelling. 

“Bilbo,” he responds reflexively. The hobbit gulps the liquid down to ease the sensation of his throat closing up. Whatever substance Bofur has given him works wonders. “Please,” he begins, his voice rough but intelligible. “There’s been a grave mistake. Myrtle, my pony, she—”

“Oh,” the dwarrow exhales sadly, removing his hat. “I’m sorry lad, must’ve been a terribly hard decision. Bif brought ’er out to the fieldhouse for ye. It’s only proper.”

“ _Alive?_ ” Bilbo asks feverishly. He needs to know, needs to stop this before it’s too late.

“Eh… no,” Bofur says uncomfortably, fiddling with the hat in his lap. “I meant her _head_ , lad. To hang on the door in the old girl’s memory.”

“You—what…?” Bilbo chokes out. 

“She didn’t suffer, if that’s what worries ye. Well… I cannae say an axe to the head is without pain, but on my brother’s honor, I promise ye he made it quick,” the dwarrow swears soberly.

There is no air. He cannot breathe, and now he really may be dying. 

“Whoa, whoa, easy there, easy!” The hobbit’s overwhelming panic spills over into Bofur’s voice as he calls out, “Oin? A little help over here!” 

Bilbo doesn’t understand anything they say to him in the following moments; half of the words aren’t even in Westron. But there is a warm, gentle hand rubbing soothing circles into his back. Someone holds a sprig of lavender up to his face and eventually places in his hands to hold onto. It is the familiar scent that allows him to finally take in one deep breath, and then another.

The healer grunts and sets aside his ear trumpet, the small device he has been using to listen to Bilbo’s woes. “I’ve never seen anyone in such a state over a mount.” He shakes his head, murmuring darkly to Bofur, “the lord-prince said he was a bit touched, but this?”

At the mention of his evil, traitorous cousin, Bilbo snaps. “He’s a monster!” 

He begins to sob uncontrollably. His entire heart has been scooped out, leaving an empty, gaping hole. He is utterly inconsolable, rocking back and forth until he runs out of tears. 

“Leave the lad,” Oin says at last. “He needs his rest.” Bofur hesitates and lingers at his bedside until the healer forcibly shuffles him out of the room, leaving Bilbo alone with his thoughts.

His awareness is heightened, taking in every sensation in the name of self-preservation: the feel of cotton against his skin, the swath of dust settling in before him in sunlit air, the sound of dwarrows talking in hushed tones outside Oin’s door. He jumps at the soft click that signals its opening.

Instead of Bofur or Oin, a different dwarrow enters the healing chambers. “Hello,” he says softly. The timber of his voice is as deep as it is imposing. “I came to see how you fare.”

“Terribly,” Bilbo answers bluntly. His words are still garbled and he looks a mess, no doubt. The evidence of his grief is written plainly in tear stains and puffy red cheeks.

His mystery visitor’s lips settle into a contrite frown. “Your arrival was not well-met, and for that I apologize.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” Bilbo winces and draws his knees up to his chest, cradling his aching head. “I just… I can’t believe she's gone.”

“Who is gone?”

“Myrtle, my pony,” the hobbit answers, his mouth set in a flat line. “By all means, enlighten me—what wicked sport is it to place an animal’s _head_ upon a door, like some macabre holiday decoration!?” He cannot be bothered to keep the venom out of his voice.

The dwarrow pauses and nods. “It is common practice among my people to honor the lives of their most noble steeds by preserving their faces, that their spirit may watch over us and guard the door. Please forgive Horsemaster Bifur; I’m sure he would not have done so if we were aware of existing differences in hobbit customs regarding your dead.”

“Common practice or not, it is horrifying and cruel,” he bites out sharply. To look upon the dead each day until what is left of them rots away and turns to dust… that sounds much more a nightmare than a blessing. Bilbo can’t bear to dwell on that image. He reaches for the lavender on his bedside table and clutches it tightly, attempting to counteract the oncoming fit of distress. 

“I am sorry. If it disturbs you so, I will have it removed.” The dwarrow shifts his weight to the other foot, searching for something to say. 

“No—I should say goodbye in person. Bury her properly.”

“As you wish.” His eyes linger on Bilbo’s small frame. “Oin is our very best healer; he assures me you will recover before the week is out. I will trouble you no further this morning, but… I hope you feel better soon.”

Bilbo’s hands fall into his lap. “Thank you,” he whispers. He has been so wrapped up in his own thoughts, he never learned the dwarrow’s name.

The silence is stifling. Grief and overwhelm both have Bilbo exhausted yet unable to sleep. He can do little else in his state besides take stock of his surroundings. 

Oin’s quarters are tidy and comfortable, if a tad stark. His bed is dressed with clean white sheets while all the others are empty. A pleasant, herbal smell emanates from the jars and poultices on the healer’s table and shelves.

It takes considerable effort, both mental and physical, to crawl to the window in back of his bed and look outside. This room is located fairly low to the ground, on the face of the mountain rather than further inside. Bilbo is exceedingly grateful not to be shut away in total darkness. Most of his view is blocked by what appears to be a giant green toe. The shape of it startles him for a moment, until he realizes this must belong to one of the famous statues that border Erebor’s main facade, a colossal pair of generals. That he missed them completely on his first view of the mountain speaks to the dire state of his illness upon arriving.

Bilbo does fall asleep eventually, napping fitfully on and off long into the afternoon until Bofur returns with sustenance and more medicine. The kindly dwarrow dabs at his chin with a cloth napkin and pats him on the back when he struggles to eat his soup. Bofur babbles about his main line of work—carpentry—as well as his friendship with Oin. Apparently, he is only here by coincidence, extending a personal favor to the healer while his regular assistant is on leave. 

The hobbit is charmed by his temporary caretaker’s voice and easy smile. Bofur makes it easy to forget his woes for a little while, at least until the topic of Myrtle is broached once more. The dwarrow apologizes profusely for having upset Bilbo earlier with his careless wording. “You cared for her dearly,” he drawls sympathetically. “I’m sure she was a wonderful friend.”

“She is,” Bilbo whispers, shaking. “She was. She belonged to my father.” The knowledge that he will never again hear that voice haunts his waking hours. “Now I have nothing left of him.”

The friendly dwarrow peers at him, his mustache twitching slightly. “That cannae be true.” He pulls from Oin’s table a looking glass and presses it into Bilbo’s hands. “Yer eyes, yer hair maybe? Something of ’im in the jaw? Not his beard, I imagine,” he chuckles. “Is it true ye hobbits can’t grow none at all? Not even a wee bit o’ scruff?”

Yes, he certainly does have his father’s honey curls, his cleft chin, his button nose. His lips and eyes and pointed ears are all his mother. “No, no beards, except on Stoors.” Bilbo cracks a tentative smile. “I see your meaning; they live on in me.” He thanks his new friend softly and sets the mirror aside. 

Bofur is right, of course. If there is any proof to be had that his wonderful parents had walked this earth, it is Bilbo himself. They are with him still, in this one momentous way, and they always will be. The heartwarming sentiment does not fix anything that has happened to Bilbo during this rotten adventure, but he takes far more comfort in the stranger’s words than expected.

There is a knock at the door, and in comes the mysterious dwarrow from earlier this morning. Bilbo’s improved state enables him to observe much more about him this time around. Long, raven hair flows loosely save for a few simple braids; it is flecked with elegant strands of silver that hints at the dwarrow’s age. His beard is cropped relatively short, and it suits his handsome face and prominent nose. The tunic he wears is elegant yet simple, the cloth from which it is cut a rich shade of midnight blue. The blue of his eyes is a different shade altogether, the shade of the lake and the sky and the sea all in one, so deep one could drown in them.

A twinge of pink sets into Bilbo’s cheeks as it occurs to him that he has all but yelled at the man, who has done him no wrong. Bungo Baggins would be rolling in his grave on account of his son’s lack of manners. “Hullo again! I’m terribly sorry about earlier,” he ekes out, voice cracking a little but stronger than before. 

“The fault is mine; I caught you in a bad way. I should have known better than to press.” His silky mane shakes with his head, effortlessly graceful as a raven in flight, and Bilbo’s eyes follow the movement. 

The hobbit’s flush deepens; he will not allow himself to silently wax poetic about this stranger. “I’m Bilbo,” he says as he remembers himself. “And you are?”

The blue-eyed dwarrow hesitates. “Thorin.” He and Bofur both stare expectantly at Bilbo as if the name should mean something to him.

“Thorin.” He tests the dwarvish name on his tongue, but it doesn’t ring any bells. “Well, it’s lovely to meet you. Do you work for Oin too?” he asks.

A sly grin slowly works its way onto Thorin’s lips; it has an immediate and astonishing effect on the pit of Bilbo’s stomach. _Oh dear._ Must be the lingering sickness on his brain. “I serve all of Erebor.” 

Bilbo takes that to mean he is a steward of some kind, not a personal servant to any particular dwarrow. The position sounds like a daunting one. “Then you must be terribly busy. I’m honored that you’ve taken the time to check in on me. Twice now.” 

For some reason, Bofur is poorly concealing a grin in his coat sleeve. His shoulders shake with silent mirth. If Thorin’s stern look is meant to quell him, it fails spectacularly; if anything, the woodcarver laughs even harder.

“It’s not every day that two hobbits wander into my city,” Thorin says wryly. “As for your kinsman—Fili is quite taken with him. I dare say the feeling is mutual.” The tone of his voice suggests a massive understatement.

Bilbo freezes the moment he realizes that Thorin is talking about Lotho. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined the lad to be capable of such treachery. Snark and hurtful barbs, certainly, but violence? _Murder?_

All pretenses of trust or kinship lay in broken pieces. He has no idea what to expect. Would Lotho go so far as to make him share in Myrtle’s fate? 

The hobbit’s breaths come in shallow and short. His knuckles fly up to clench protectively in front of his neck, catching his caretaker’s attention. “Is yer throat hurting again? I’ll fetch some hot tea, that should do the trick.” Quick as a wink, Bofur runs off, leaving him in this strange limbo with Thorin.

“Has he—” It takes all of his courage to utter the traitor’s name aloud. “—has Lotho mentioned me?” Bilbo hazards, wheezing a bit. “I need to speak with him. _Please_.” His voice is tight and fraught with fear and distrust. 

Thorin’s answering tone is apologetic. “That will be difficult at the moment. He and Fili are getting acquainted; they have much to discuss before the wedding. I’m afraid they will both be detained for some time.”

“Fili? Er, right. The prince.”

“Yes, Fili is the eldest, and no less of a rascal,” the dwarrow explains fondly. “He and Lotho are touring the forge today—with a chaperone,” he adds emphatically. “Durin’s beard, those two have _no_ sense of propriety.” Thorin winces as though the topic at hand is either very painful or embarrassing, or both. “I’m afraid I don’t understand the youth of today.” 

Bilbo blinks. Lotho... and the Prince? 

It was his cousin who had written the letter and fawned over the prince’s portrait from the beginning. _He_ had understood the dwarrow’s double-entendres and inappropriate gift right away. Not to mention his reaction to the second letter.

_Of_ _course_ —Lotho had wanted Fili all this time. How could Bilbo have been so blind!? He had told Lotho, in so many words, to marry the prince. Well now he feels like a massive idiot. And his cousin is posing as the Thain’s selected ambassador, to be the prince’s consort. 

Bofur returns and he is pushing a steaming mug of chamomile into Bilbo’s hands. The hobbit takes a sip with stiff, jerky movements, a thousand questions plaguing him all the while. The soothing scent calms him somewhat and makes room in his buzzing brain to begin weaving together threads of logic bit by bit. 

If Lotho wanted him dead, he would have had Bilbo executed already, not treated by Erebor’s healer. But that doesn’t mean he bears his cousin no further ill will. 

Bilbo has gained but one small part of the answers he seeks, but it isn’t nearly enough. Why— _why_ would he kill Myrtle? What does it all mean? He cannot make heads or tails of it.

“What will happen to me now?” he whispers. 

“Don’t worry, ye won’t be out of a job!” Bofur assures him, and Bilbo wants to laugh hysterically because, yes, _that_ ’s what he was worried about. “Ye’ll be workin’ with me,” he announces, his face the definition of delight.

Thorin hums in confirmation, folding his arms. They look very strong for the life of a valet, and Bilbo wonders if they have known the strain of the forge, or even battle. Then again, perhaps dwarrows are just built that way. 

“Your kinsman no longer has need of your services,” he tells the hobbit apologetically. “He has expressed a preference for all-dwarrow attendants; I do believe he means to immerse himself in Khuzdul to learn our language faster.” Bilbo does _not_ feel a twinge of jealousy at the impressed tone in Thorin’s voice, because _that_ would be ridiculous and completely unfounded. “Oin has advised only light duties, since you are still on the mend. Once you are back up on your feet, Bofur will show you around to survey the arable land at our disposal. He and Bifur have plenty of space to put you up—if that is amenable to you.”

“Right,” Bilbo says slowly. That was originally supposed to be his job here, after all: overseeing Erebor’s farming project. 

“If you wish to return to the Shire, that is understandable,” Thorin says gently. “But such a long return journey will last long into the cold months. You are welcome to remain here in Erebor’s employment until Spring, and we will pay handsomely for your trouble. I underestimated the time it would take for Fili’s intended to arrive; with all the wedding preparations and alliance arrangements, he will have little time to address both matters of state and agriculture in person before the end of the growing season.”

“We could _reee_ ally use the extra help,” Bofur adds, hitting Bilbo with his most winsome smile.

Bilbo fists at the hem of his sheets. He has hit an inner crossroads. Part of him clambers to object to being made a servant. He could have done with it now; if he tells them what really transpired, there is a small chance they will believe him. Perhaps he might even get an audience with the royal family to set Lotho straight. He should march up to the palace and demand to give that slimy maggot a piece of his mind! 

Or... He can let it lay.

Lotho’s actions, despicable as they are, have given Bilbo an out. If he stays silent, he will no longer be bound in marriage to a stranger. As long as someone upholds the alliance to ensure the Shire’s safety, he will have done his duty.

“Alright,” he finds himself saying. Let that abominable ninnyhammer have his fancy wedding and royal status and precious jewels; Bilbo could hardly care less. But Myrtle…

He will never forgive his cousin, nor call him kin, not after what he did to her. Lotho will pay for this. By Aüle, he will pay.

Bofur cheers and flails so enthusiastically, he nearly knocks Bilbo off the bed, and Thorin’s quiet smile says that he is equally pleased. “It is settled then.” He makes his bid to leave so that Bilbo may rest. Bilbo feels inexplicably sad to see the enigmatic dwarrow go, and sadder still when Bofur follows him.

“Wait!” Bilbo objects, reaching out instinctively, then pulls back with an embarrassed flush. “Will I see you again?”

Thorin pauses halfway to the door. He dips his head decisively and leaves from whence he came. Bofur chuckles and tells him not to fret; he will be back in the morning. 

Bilbo sighs as the door shuts behind them both; the presence of potential friends had given his heavy heart a brief respite. Thankfully, the physical toll of illness and sorrow chooses this moment to hit him again, letting him sink into a night of much-needed rest.

Tonight, he mourns for Myrtle. Tomorrow will dawn a new chapter in his never-ending journey.

* * *

What was supposed to be a formal tour of Erebor’s outermost grounds has turned into story time, and Bilbo isn’t upset about it in the slightest; now that panic is no longer consuming him every other second, he is quite happy for the company. 

Bofur makes for an exceedingly patient tour guide, letting Bilbo lean on his arm for support and stopping whenever he needs to rest. After a few days’ recovery he still feels weak, but fresh air and time outside do him a world of good.

Looking at the grand, bustling kingdom of Erebor from the outside, it is difficult to tell that a dragon had laid waste to this very land not fifty years past. The hordes of gold and dragon dung have long-since been cleared out, the mountain’s wealth dispersed to break the tainted curse of dragon-sickness. There are dwellings etched into the mountainside, old and new, and its halls and markets and forges teem with life.

Bilbo had intentionally avoided discussing the dwarven kingdom at length with his hosts during the trip here. It was easy to deflect with his own questions about elven culture. Still, watered down versions of the grand tale had trickled their way to Bilbo’s ears over time. It was another thing altogether to hear the story from someone who had been there. Four years ago, Bofur had joined the king’s campaign to retake the Lonely Mountain. As he spoke, Bilbo found himself blown away, goggling at the dwarrow’s story like a child listening to one of Gandalf’s tales.

Long ago, their ancestors were driven from their home in Khazad-dûm by an accursed balrog. But dwarrows are a strong and steadfast people; they forged ahead to the north and created a marvelous city in the mountain, the likes of which no one in Middle Earth had ever seen. They traded with men and elves both, and soon grew to be the envy of all seven dwarven kingdoms.

Durin’s folk had already suffered much, and they would continue to do so. The discovery of a cursed gem in the heart of the mountain garnered the attention of Smaug, the fearsome fire drake, who rained fire on Erebor and Esgaroth both. 

Driven from their home, the men retreated to Laketown, while the dwarrows of Erebor were left to roam and perish at the hands of Smaug or be picked off by goblins in the harsh wilderness. Their kin would have surely perished had it not been for the elven king’s intervention. Thranduil agreed to an alliance between their two kingdoms, but _only_ to shelter and feed their people within the safety of the Greenwood. He refused to sacrifice a single soldier to their scaly cause. 

The dwarrows’ then-king raged against him furiously, demanding an army to charge and retake the mountain, while his son cared only for their people’s safety. Try as he might, he could not dissuade his father from following through on his half-baked attempt to retake Khazad-dûm in the south, leading to his death at the hand of the orc chief Azog.

For those of Durin’s folk who remained, there was only so much that the forest could provide; over the years, many of their people took refuge in other dwarven cities. Some remained loyal to their true king, but they had hardly the strength or numbers to take on Smaug.

One small group of brave dwarrows—comrades and friends from all walks of life, who numbered but a mere thirteen—vowed to follow their king. They allied with the men of Laketown, who had grown sick and tired of suffering at the hand of their greedy Master, and led one final assault against Smaug on the last light of Durin’s Day, defeating him with courage and bravery and luck. And no small amount of magic, either.

Bofur’s wild tale is peppered with Bilbo’s unwavering questions and dramatic reactions at the appropriate moments. He ends the tale with a little flourish and a bow, and Bilbo reciprocates with hearty applause. 

Bilbo learns more about Bofur himself as well. The dwarrow is as charming as they come; he seems to be one of those people who worms their way into others’ hearts without even trying. Bofur grew up as a humble toy-maker in the Blue Mountains. He and his brothers lived in poverty before emigrating to the Greenwood and, eventually, playing a key role in Erebor’s rebirth.

For his contribution to the kingdom, shouldn’t he be filthy rich now? Bilbo ponders this, confused by his simple clothing and modest lodgings. Bofur laughs and explains the conundrum of the Arkenstone’s curse: the more gold the dwarrows take, the harder they suffer. In order to end the curse, the king had to return the mountain’s heart and divest Erebor of its treasures. The more he gave away, the more avarice lessened its grip on their kin.

It was a hard-won lesson, Bofur explains; he suspects that the only reason their king was able to overcome such blinding greed was for the sake of his two young nephews. Today, dwarrows, humans, and elves alike take fair shares of the profit. Now, it seems, hobbits too will join their fold.

Of course, that doesn’t mean Erebor has _no_ wealth to be seen, Bofur tells him cheekily. The king could have easily set him and Bifur up with lofty quarters in the palace, but he and his brother (who Bilbo discovers is actually his cousin. Good to know that dwarves have just as complicated familial relations as do hobbits) prefer the wide open swath of land after living for so long in a forest. Other dwarrows think them mad and insist that they’ll lose their stone-sense, but neither of them care. Their cozy cabin on the hill is a far cry grander than their humble origins. And, well, free meals for life and all the fine lumber that Bofur could ever want for carving certainly don’t hurt.

Once Oin approves his discharge from the hospital wing, Bofur and Bifur invite him into their home. Their cabin smells of fresh pine and has a well-loved, lived-in vibe. Bilbo can tell which corner is Bofur’s right away; the drafting table covered in wood shavings is a dead giveaway. Bifur’s is tidier simply because he owns less things: a few books here, a lantern there, and a set of meticulously well-kept brushes and combs. There is also a simple stove and a gorgeous wooden dining table just big enough for four, along with all the odds and ends to meet basic kitchen needs.

Both dwarrows swell with pride for the small but happy space they share. Bifur gestures to a small, empty bed in the remaining corner and then sets a stack of clean linens on the mattress. 

“That there’s yours,” Bofur says, “Plenty o’ room to put yer things. I reckon it ain’t much compared to a fancy hobbit hole, but it’s home!” 

A lump forms in Bilbo’s throat at that last word. He has thought of the Shire many times over the past hours. Despite his tentative agreement to help Thorin and Bofur, the temptation to go home is still strong. They have made it clear that he is no slave; he is free to leave at any time. Perhaps they would even lend him enough supplies to brave the wilderness alone.

And if he succeeds—to what end? Supposing he does make it, at least he will be able to see Drogo and Primula’s first child come into the world. But after that, after a few happy reunions, what will he do then? Bilbo could tell the Sackville-Bagginses in person what a miserable, nasty, traitorous cur their son has turned out to be, but it wouldn’t matter; they have the deed to Bag End. Lobelia will fight tooth and nail to keep it. Even if Bilbo somehow won it back somehow, it would be an empty vessel devoid of all of his worldly possessions. They lay desecrated somewhere in the Misty Mountains. Worse still, he is without his mother’s handkerchief and without Myrtle—valar, the _pain_ still flickers through him every time the voice in his head speaks her name.

“I don’t have a home,” it occurs to Bilbo. Not anymore. “...I don’t have _anything_.”

Bofur and Bifur exchange a look of understanding. They gather the hobbit into a comforting group hug and assure him that they will do all they can to help. Since they have the king’s ear, they might even be able to arrange an upfront allowance for a bit of his pay, that way he may buy a few things to make this little corner his own. 

Their fast and furious kindness shakes Bilbo to the core. These dwarrows had known squalor for most of their lives, yet they would share everything they have with him, a total stranger? Humility replaces Bilbo’s moping and he resolves to be a properly-gracious roommate. He will strive to repay them by helping out as much as possible to help run the place. 

Besides, he is staying through the next two seasons; he can worry about repairing and refilling Bag End when he crosses that bridge next Spring. Perhaps he can write to Gandalf and ask for help recovering some of the items he had lost in the mountains. And if not, the lack of furniture will make it easier to make large-scale renovations to his smial. Maybe he’ll add a larger dining room, go out and about and make more friends, invite people over for gatherings. Yes, a warmer, fuller house like this one sounds ideal.

That beautiful dream of normalcy carries him through the next few days and into full recovery. He continues to survey the city and its surrounding lands with Bofur. Now that Bilbo knows where to look, he can pick out some of the hallmarks of the Lonely Mountain’s ruin: some scaffolding where a few of the larger statues are still being repaired, other new pieces being slowly erected. Scorch marks that could not be scrubbed away or were purposely preserved as a reminder of Erebor’s sordid past.

For further evidence of Smaug’s desolation, one need only look out to the barren fields. What few trees live are young, and none that he sees can yet bear fruit. The remainder consists mostly of tall grasses and brush.

“So where are the planting beds?” he asks Bofur on his third day out. 

The dwarrow’s wavy braids bob up and down as he shrugs. “Wherever yeh think we should put them?”

These will be Erebor’s very first farmlands, Bilbo learns; in the time before its reckoning, the Men of Esgaroth took care of all planting. Then, during their exile, Durin’s folk simply traded their wares for imported goods and hunted the rest, thus their people are wholly unfamiliar with the practice of growing food.

For now, their neighbor Men sow just enough crops to feed both cities with careful rationing. However, with both populations growing larger by the day, their yield is highly unsustainable. There is also a shortage of wild game in the surrounding mountains and the forest beyond Thranduil’s territory, thanks to years of poaching by dragon and goblin alike. Bofur says their king fears for the winters to come.

“The lord-prince gave us a list of supplies but not much else. I s’pose his royal highness won’t have time to come out an’ do the dirty work himself with the alliance an’ all.” Bofur’s nose wrinkles in distaste as he examines the scroll in question. “Too many vegetables.” 

Bilbo’s heart climbs into his throat at the sight of that familiar, meticulous script. He knew to whom Bofur referred, of course, but it doesn’t stop the physical evidence of Lotho’s presence here from smacking him in the figurative face. He has still seen neither hair nor hide of his cousin, and he isn’t sure he wants to. 

“Is he helping?” he prods carefully. “With the alliance, I mean?”  
  


“I dunno. Ye’ll have to ask Thorin for the details,” Bofur answers. “All’s I heard is that the king and the princes are all in, but the lord-prince has to get Dain and the other nobles on his side. He’s got one heck of a job convincin’ the them that yer Shire is worth protectin.’”

Bilbo swallows. For their people’s sake, he hopes that the younger hobbit is taking the political part of this farce seriously.

In terms of actual planting, Bilbo certainly has his work cut out for him. Thankfully, he is far from alone in this massive project; Bofur has rounded up a team of strong dwarrows for Bilbo to oversee, delegating them to the tasks of tilling and planting. He is surprised to be given so much leeway, but, as Bofur explains, his very presence on the field is a boost to their helpers’ morale. Apparently, the dwarrows’ little knowledge of hobbits’ planting skills has taken on a massively-exaggerated lens. True enough, they are people of the earth, but in the eyes of his field hands, Bilbo’s talent for farming might as well be the stuff of legends. He advises them to manage expectations, for no one can develop an entire orchard in a day!

His first inkling is to test the soil in different areas and figure out which supplies they need. At a cursory glance, Bilbo feels outraged by the lack of diversity in vegetables and spices on Lotho’s list, and a few of the things he _has_ included might not fare so well in the Lonely Mountain’s climate. Upon further inspection, he must admit that his cousin’s list is adequately thought out, for the short-term. It relies heavily on crops that will grow quickly and will last through the earliest of winter’s chill, as well as staples that Erebor’s people will willingly eat—potatoes, carrots, fruit—while also introducing a few new things. Bilbo is learning, as he takes meals with his roommates, that they are not used to greens in the slightest.

It is already late summer, so Bilbo focuses his time on planning layouts for fields and storage structures as efficiently as possible. He will also have his recruits plant the strongest starts for new orchards and other crops that will take longer than the current growing season to cultivate. They start by outlining the appropriate field spaces and sending his amended supply list to the royal court for approval. He has added some crops that Lotho had never considered and struck a few of the original ideas; his additions will have myriad uses for both Erebor’s kitchens and Oin as well, for low upfront cost.

The next step is to reap the tall grasses and till the soil. Not one to waste viable resources, Bilbo suggests that the drying plants be boiled and processed into paper. It will make for more brittle stock than leaf-based parchment, but it is usable nonetheless. Bofur is mightily impressed by his ingenuity and says that a close friend of his will know just what to do with it.

For the first time in a _long_ time, Bilbo feels the kind of pleasure that only comes from consistent hard work. It leaves him a little achy but altogether more satisfied with himself than the bits of idle gardening he had settled for doing in Bag End—and even then, Hamfast had done most of the heavy lifting. Idle hands do not a happy hobbit make. His duties provide a welcome distraction; he is still reeling over the loss of Myrtle, but he is also beginning to cope with the topsy-turvy mess of chaos that life has thrown at him. 

The three of them resume work until Bofur calls time. Bifur tells him the story of his infamous injury—nasty business with a few stray orcs—in a combination of Khuzul and Iglishmêk. Sadly, Bilbo understands neither, forcing Bofur to translate until he can get a better grasp on the hand signals. 

Bifur rubs the back of his head and signs something to his cousin. 

“He says: '‘ _m sorry about your pony. Do you want to see her?’_ ” Bofur translates. He has to catch Bilbo in a dead faint, only just preventing him from hitting the ground. Everyone takes that as a resounding ‘ _no_ ’ and the subject is not brought up again. A wise decision.

It doesn’t stop the images, twisted and harrowing, from invading his dreams that night: Lotho, eyes bright yellow and slitted like a warg, standing over Myrtle with the headsman's axe. Her mangled corpse, rotting and frozen in a pose of agony. The worst is when she speaks, crying out for Bilbo to save her. 

By the end of Bilbo’s first week in their shared home, he is utterly exhausted. He has disturbed his poor roommates more times than he can count; thank Yavanna that Bofur is such a sound sleeper. 

This time, Bilbo is sure they’ll kick him out, and he’ll have to to sleep on the ground outside. But Bofur snores and falls back asleep in seconds, while Bifur only stares at Bilbo thoughtfully.

Bilbo whimpers, slipping out of his bed and onto the floor. “I’m sorry,” he moans, shaking, trying to make the torturous images disappear. “I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_.” 

The dwarrow gets up from his bed and lights a candle. He grabs parchment and a quill from his bookshelf and comes over to Bilbo’s corner, plopping down beside him. He places the candleholder between them and faces Bilbo. _Don’t worry about Bo, he sleeps like the dead,_ Bifur writes with a soft snort. 

He signs a few words in Iglishmêk and then motions for Bilbo to imitate them. “‘Dream,’” Bilbo murmurs, at the sight of the first word. Bifur repeats the signs. “‘Not,’ that’s the second one.” Bifur nods enthusiastically. Try as he might, he does not remember the third, so Bifur writes it down for him: _Real._

“‘Dream not real.’ Dreams _aren’t_ real,” Bilbo repeats, keeping his voice low. The hobbit sighs. “I know they’re not, but… They feel as solid as you or me. I can’t get her out of my head.”

Bifur writes and asks him to concentrate on things that _are_ real. They go through many of the signs that Bilbo does know: sky, sun, moon, stars, grass, earth, trees, flowers. They practice some of the phrases Bifur taught him yesterday. He is starting to get the hang of very basic grammar. Then Bifur adds new words for Bilbo to practice, and by the time he stops, Bilbo has forgotten all about his nightmare.

“ _Fill your head with pleasant things before bed, and they will fill your dreams_ ," Bifur signs at last, and Bilbo understands the gist of it, if not the entire sentence. They are both yawning, eyelids drooping, and they fall asleep against the side of Bilbo’s bed. Not the most comfortable position, but Bilbo still sleeps better than he has in days.

Bofur wakes them in the morning, lamenting for their poor, abused backs. “Can’ we ask Oin to give ’im one o’ those sleeping tonics?”

“ _Not good for the long-term,_ ” Bifur counters. Bilbo excitedly repeats his signs, along with most of the ones they practiced last night. He and Bifur can’t have entire conversations without writing yet, but it’s coming along. He remembers the words so much better after learning them right before bed.

“Well, I’ll be darned,” Bofur whistles, grinning.

Bifur teaches him a few more signs over breakfast. Bilbo tries to remember them while he is working. He also discovers that pushing himself in the field helps; a sufficiently tired body wins him dreamless sleep.

Within a mere fortnight, they accomplish far more than Bilbo had originally projected. Bofur tells him that the king will be chuffed indeed when he arrives to assess their progress, and that he should be proud. He also adds in an unnecessary comment about hobbits having far greater constitution than their appearances suggest, to which Bilbo rolls his eyes.

Thorin has yet to make an appearance to their humble abode. A fond grin appears on Bofur’s face when the hobbit plucks up the courage to ask after him. Bilbo learns that Thorin is a close friend of the cousins Ur. He visits when he can, popping in for impromptu musical jam sessions and conversation from time to time. “I expect he’ll be by _veeery_ soon,” he drawls. “Ready my flute, Bif!”

The taller dwarrow flips him a rude gesture, and Bilbo doesn’t need to speak fluent Iglishmêk to know he means: “ _Get it yourself._ ” Bofur cackles while Bilbo imagines what Bifur’s voice must have sounded like in Westron: deep, gruff, and warm like unfiltered honey. 

When stretches of days pass without a word from Thorin, Bilbo sulks, and Bofur reminds him with amusement that the raven-haired dwarrow is very busy. That he devotes time to visit them at all, Bofur insists, is a very remarkable thing indeed.

To Bilbo’s delight, he arrives at their door the very next morning. “Shall we tour the fields, Master…?”

“Baggins. But just Bilbo is fine,” he insists, flushing slightly.

“Baggins,” Thorin echoes. “The same as Lotho’s, is it not? A common surname amongst your people, I presume.” 

Bilbo could smack himself on the forehead for having let slip such an important detail, and it looks as though Thorin has noticed. “We’re—distantly related.” 

Thorin’s regal brows climb his forehead, thick and arched. “He never mentioned you. I find it odd that he does not visit his own kin.”

Alarm bells ring in Bilbo’s ears. “That’s perfectly alright! I’m sure he’s far too busy with—things,” he insists in a rush. “We’re not close anyway. Not at all,” he finishes flatly, hoping against hope that Thorin will drop the subject.

No such luck. “You are markedly older than Fili’s intended. How came you into his service?”

_Funny story, that._ Bilbo waves it off with a muttered half-truth, some excuse about favors owed and their family feud. By the affirmative tone of his grunt, Thorin accepts his explanation for now. 

Bofur’s cheerful whistling pivots them back to their forgotten purpose. The three of them roam across the fields; Bilbo and Bofur explain their plans and Thorin takes down detailed notes. 

When they have finished the overview, Thorin tarries a while. “You have done exceedingly well, Bilbo. Are all hobbits so educated in the ways of planting?”

At this, Bilbo lets out a huff of laughter. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? There are so many of us to feed after all.” Being a dabbler of many random talents, Bilbo has little experience in feeling like an expert in anything, and it makes his head swell with a healthy dose of pride. He goes on to elaborate the different specialities that different families in the Shire have taken on: the Greenfields produce unparalleled root crops, and a connoisseur of mushrooms need look no farther than Farmer Maggot’s field in Eastfarthing. But _no one’s_ orchards could compare to Great Uncle Ponto’s. To this day, their apples remain the envy of all hobbits, the secrets of success guarded well by Rosa and Polo both.

Thorin smiles at Bilbo’s impassioned monologue and shares a similar memory. “I taught my sister-sons to forge. The eldest took to it right away, but his brother never did. He prefers the hunt, and weapons of elvish make.”

The hobbit chuckles at his companion’s dismay. “Is that what you do—make weapons? I thought you were a valet of some sort.”

“...Among other things.”

Bofur snickers from his spot by the newly-seeded cabbage patch and Thorin shoots him a dark look.

Before he takes his leave, Thorin reiterates his promise to visit his friends again soon—next time with music. Bifur threatens that he had better keep his word, or else. Something soft and sweet flutters in Bilbo’s chest as he watches Thoin disappear into the mountain.

Since they have nothing left to do until the afternoon, Bofur asks Bilbo if he would like to go with him to visit the market. “I’d love to!” Bilbo’s face lights up. The crown has kindly granted his request for an advance—much more readily than Bilbo had expected. His nearly-empty corner could use some love, and he is curious to see what a dwarven open air market looks like.

They comprise more jewelry than any practical person could ever use, as it turns out. That, along with weapons and tools and various metal goods that shine in all sorts of shapes and finishes—a feast for the eyes if ever Bilbo saw. But for the most part, the main stalls contain goods that the hobbit cannot afford, and neither will they make for useful pieces in his small, shared space.

There are a few craftsman who share in Bofur’s trade, having picked it up from their time in the Greenwood. The only thing that stands out to him is a gorgeous mahogany cheeseboard, but Bofur dissuades him from buying it; he’ll make Bilbo a far superior version if he really wants one.

Empty-handed, Bilbo backtracks through the metalworkers’ wares in search of simpler goods—journals, quills, and books. He stops by a sheet metal stand to let a passing merchant roll by with his cart. There are more buyers around here than the other stands and it doesn’t take long for him to see why.

Not three feet away from him stands the Crown Prince of Erebor. The shopkeeper hands him a parcel wrapped in paper, for which he thanks her. And then, because of _course_ Bilbo’s luck would fail him now, Fili turns to look straight at him.

Bilbo would gladly melt into the ground if it meant escaping the prince’s curious gaze. What a stupid idea it had been to come here. Of all the people he could encounter, he can only think of one worse candidate.

Bofur is his savior; he steps in to chat with the prince. Bilbo doesn’t stick around to hear whatever they are saying, turning tail for the safety of the cabin. 

His roommate catches up to him eventually, bewildered by his disappearance. “Why’d yeh do that? I was going to introduce you!” 

Bilbo pants to catch his breath. “I—” He cannot think of a single thing to say that won’t give him away, so... “I thought I saw a goblin,” he deadpans.

Bofur’s face contorts from confusion to pure mirth. “He’s not _that_ ugly.” His laugh is long and loud. “Ye’r stark-raving mad, you are!” The woodcarver assures him that Fili is a good lad and a personal friend. How many people does this dwarrow _know_? 

“They’re just people like you an’ me,” Bofur points out, and Bilbo lets him assume that the fit of nerves had to do with royal status alone. They leave empty-handed and continue to go about their routine as usual.

Days melt away into weeks, and Bilbo busies himself with his work. He has come to enjoy the scenic beauty of Erebor and takes solace in his simple daily pleasures. When he isn’t busy running around planning to feed an entire kingdom, Bilbo continues Iglishmêk lessons with Bifur, to the point where they can have longer and more complex conversations. The horsemaster proves to be quite hilarious once Bilbo begins to understand his wisecrack humor. 

Lodging with roommates proves to be an unexpected boon so late in Bilbo’s bachelor life. The three of them fall into a companionable routine, and a few pet peeves here and there are more than made up for by their companionship. Although, Bilbo could certainly do without the running joke that he is barmy. Nothing he says or does manages to successfully quell this notion, so eventually he gives up and starts to play along. After all, there are far worse things than being Mad Baggins. 

Bifur is careful to avoid the topic of Myrtle. Although his nightmares have died down somewhat in the coming weeks, it is hard to know exactly what might trigger another for Bilbo. Despite the fact that Bilbo does not blame him for Myrtle’s death, their friendship carries the shadow of latent guilt. Bifur’s occupation is a constant reminder of his loss. He hates walking on eggshells, and he knows it is completely infeasible and unfair to expect Bifur never to mention his work. Yet he cannot ease Bifur’s mind completely without explaining Lotho’s betrayal, and that is a risk Bilbo is unwilling to take. 

A little over a month after Midsummer, Bofur presents a more effective solution to the hobbit’s nightmares. He gifts to Bilbo a handsome cuckoo clock (so _that’s_ what he was hiding under the tarp out back!). Bilbo lavishes him with praise for his work and kisses his temple in thanks for the thoughtful gift. Pink-cheeked and bashful, the artist helps hang it up on the wall behind Bilbo’s bed. 

Meanwhile, Bifur explains that the crystals set into the clock are meant to help ward off bad dreams. He has to spell out a few of the stone names that Bilbo does not yet understand in Iglishmêk, and Bilbo knows whose brilliant idea this really was. 

“ _Thank you both,_ ” he says and signs, _“for_ everything.” He pours all of the words he cannot say into one great big hug. Bifur seems to understand, and a bit of that underlying hurt between them bleeds away. 

His friends are eager for Bilbo to test out the clock charms this evening. But first, it is time to celebrate their latest successes. Bofur even manages to rope in Thorin for the occasion—the more, the merrier! 

Bilbo serves mead and homemade shortcake, recieving compliments all around—apparently, Erebor’s head chef himself would approve of this dessert. The hobbit quietly sips at his mead, warm and honeyed, soaking up to the sound of Thorin’s voice. 

He has only been able to see the enigmatic dwarrow a handful of times since arriving here in Erebor, but each and every time, he learns something new: another piece of the evolving puzzle. Thorin is incredibly knowledgeable about the goings-on of Erebor, including its history and political affairs. Bilbo ascertains that he tends to nobles of high rank, though the dwarrow never answers which ones directly. 

Thorin absoultely adores his family, even though his nephews drive him mad and his sister could make the bravest of dwarrows shake in their boots. Bilbo leans forward slightly, hanging onto every word, until Bifur smirks and signs for him to stop drooling.

Bofur rattles off the budding farm’s newest accomplishments and relays Bifur’s progress outfitting the stables. Thorin describes a frustrating day at court while his friends listen and offer advice where appropriate. Afterwards, all of them listen intently to Bilbo’s working theory that Smaug’s dragonfire has acted as a catalyst to rejuvenate the soil. It has to be, otherwise the potatoes would not be doing nearly as well. 

“He’s a miracle worker, this one,” Bofur chuckles, looping a friendly arm around Bilbo. The hobbit flushes and vehemently denies his overstated praise.

Thorin’s eyes narrow ever-so-slightly, moving to a point over Bilbo’s shoulder. “A hobbit of many talents,” he murmurs in agreement. 

Gracious—they’ve been talking for so long, there is precious little time to squeeze in a quick tune. Bifur has barely finished his clarinet solo before is Thorin making a mad dash back to Erebor proper. The dwarrow cousins shout something after him in Khuzdul; their tone sounds a little harsh (then again, every word in the dwarven language sounds as such to Bilbo), but they are wearing matching smiles all the same.

“I’m knackered!” Bofur declares. Bilbo agrees, and for once he allows them to put off the washing. He certainly _feels_ tired enough to sleep well. 

Dear Yavanna, he hopes that the clock will work, that tonight’s sleep will be dreamless. Bilbo fidgets in his bed, pulling the covers tight around himself. He tosses and turns, until he remembers what Bifur said the other day, when their best tiller broke: _Always have a back-up plan_. 

That’s right; he can do this. He can cope. If magic charms should fail to ease his sleep, Bilbo will look up and name the stones, practicing the hand signals that he remembers for them. This way, he can soothe himself to sleep without waking anyone.

_Selenite. Quartz. Danburite. Moonstone… Amethyst…_

Strange. Not so very long ago, Erebor and all its many minerals had embodied Bilbo’s greatest fears. Yet, in both his dreams and waking hours, this land of stone has slowly become his sacred refuge. 

Here, a thousand miles from home, it feels as if time has slowed to a halt. It pulls Bilbo full-force into the present, battering against his will. Ever since he arrived, he has been forced to confront change with each and every moment. Thus, he is unable to escape into the comforting cloak of time’s ephemeral passage.

Everything prior to now will be known to him as ‘before’ the Lonely Mountain; there is no going back to the way things used to be. Though the thought is a daunting one, it is not, in fact, a bad thing. 

Whatever comes next, Bilbo does not know. He remembers nothing from this night. 

* * *

One sunny afternoon, when Bilbo returns to the cabin, he is stunned to find a freshly-picked bouquet of flowers on his bed. White calla lilies, a bit late in the season. They are beginning to wilt. 

He remembers seeing some of them grow by the stream and asks Bifur offhandedly if he picked them, to which the dwarrow answers with a wrinkle of his nose. No, he can see neither Bifur nor Bofur as the flower-loving type, and besides, whoever sent them left them on Bilbo’s bed specifically. But the list of people he knows here is a small one. 

An image of Thorin proffering the freshly-picked bouquet flashes through his mind. Bilbo is disquieted by his own imaginings as he tries to pour his afternoon tea. But he laughs it off easy enough because, frankly, the idea is silly and a little presumptuous. If the dwarrow _had_ made such a gesture, it was certainly not with romantic intentions; perhaps Thorin had left them as a friendly gift, thinking they would brighten up the room? Whatever the reason, Bilbo would hardly expect him to know the meaning of these particular blooms.

The dwarrow in question arrives shortly to take tea with him. Thorin’s visits have grown longer and more frequent. Most days, he leaves in a rush, but occasionally he tarries, like today. It is just him and Thorin for now, as Bofur is running late and Bifur has gone to water the ponies. Bilbo savors the rare gift of catching a moment alone with him. 

After his second cuppa, Bilbo musters the courage to ask Thorin about the bouquet, albeit with a bit more fumbling of his words than he would like. To his great relief—perhaps streaked with the _tiniest_ hint of disappointment—Thorin answers in the negative as he pours Bilbo’s third.

“Ah, your kinsman requested that these be delivered. I overheard him place the order this morning.”

Bilbo goes dead still. Lotho, of whom he has seen neither hide nor hair for over a month, sent them himself, which leaves no room for misinterpretation of their meaning. White lilies stand for sympathy: a classic hobbitish apology.

For weeks, not a single word to threaten Bilbo or otherwise—and _now_ he’s sorry? No note, no explanation. No answer to the burning question _why?_

His blood is boiling, and he is standing and slamming both hands on the table. Thorin’s pouring is ruined, and liquid chrysanthemum drips down onto Bofur’s hand-carved tabletop. Bilbo growls and the noise that ripples out of his throat is halfway to murderous. “That mangy, miserable, _rotten little slinker!_ If this is his idea of an apology—I ought to—” 

Thorin is staring at him. Perhaps, Bilbo thinks in retrospect, he is not exactly discouraging the others’ assertion that he is unhinged. Lovely. Just when he was starting to make a decent impression, too. 

The dwarrow’s unreadable face settles on heated concern. “Did he abuse you when you were in his service?” Swallowing thickly, Bilbo responds with a curt shake of his head. “Then he has wronged you in some other way?”

“I can’t tell you that,” Bilbo murmurs cagily. “It’s complicated. The dispute between us is a private family matter.”

Storm blue eyes narrow dangerously. “You will tell me at once if his intentions here are dishonorable. If his own kin eyes him with such distrust, there must be a reason. I will _not_ put the line of Durin at risk.”

Bilbo clenches and unclenches his fists. “He is no threat to them,” the hobbit sighs. He would like to comment further that his cousin’s honor is indeed questionable, but he dare not escalate things beyond this point. “Cur that he is, I believe Lotho’s feelings for the Price Fili are real,” he admits, running a hand through his haggard curls. “They exchanged letters on the road and fell in love. I think he was gone the minute he saw that portrait.” Under different circumstances, the whole thing could be considered sweet… sans the part where he murdered an innocent, sentient animal and left his own kin in servitude. 

“Swear to me that what you say is true.”

The hobbit pauses. The lilies speak of guilt, but nothing else. He can’t be sure that Lotho has no other angle here, besides marrying Fili. If he does, can Bilbo justify hiding his secret? 

Then again, what damage can a single hobbit do? Against an entire kingdom of dwarrows, no less. “I do not believe he will not harm the royal family,” Bilbo says at last. “I ask that you respect my decision to withhold the details.” The dwarrow’s grumbling settles into a reluctant frown and Bilbo knows that Thorin believes him. “Yes, he has committed a grievous wrong and he knows it. But _this—_ ” Bilbo says, gathering up the lilies in hand and spitefully chucking them to the waste bucket, “—is the coward’s way. An earnest apology is made in person and with words.”

Anger gives way to grief and bitter disappointment. Bilbo releases the majority of his consternation in a gust of exhaled air and sits back down. “Though it matters little; he can never undo what he’s done.”

Thorin’s expression has become unreadable again, but a thin smile plays on his lips. “Mahal’s mercy to those who earn your ire, Bilbo Baggins.”

Only now does Bilbo realize that his fists are shaking; he stills them at once. “I’m so sorry! We were having such a nice time before I spoiled the mood.”

“On the contrary,” Thorin says, his eyes glittering with poorly-hidden mirth. “I find your candidness refreshing. You are—unusually expressive.”

“Happy to entertain,” Bilbo snorts, reaching over to stack Thorin’s empty plate on top of his own. 

Thorin’s hand stills the movement. “I mean not to make light of your troubles. My hope is that you will share them openly with me one day. It’s just… You show what you feel with such honest depth; it is a rare and welcome sight for one who spends their days at court.” 

He pulls back to reach for something beneath the table and Bilbo feels bereft at the sudden loss of his touch. From its green velvet wrapping, Thorin produces a lyre stringed with gold. “Now, it seems only fair that I entertain you in return. I believe I have yet to deliver on a certain promise of music.” He sets the instrument firmly on top of his thigh, leaning it into the crook of his shoulder, and begins to ♪ [ play ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nmExqfKa1Uc). ♪

The tune begins as a series of playful, jaunty notes. _One two three, one two three._ The strings vibrate with bright clarity, both uplifting and soothing at once. Thorin’s notes dance back and forth, up and down like a pony prancing. 

Bilbo’s eyes close as the music washes over him. He loses himself in that imagery: Myrtle and his father appearing over the hilltop after a day at the market. His mother attempting to ride side saddle, wobbling as she holds his father’s shoulder for support. The three of them laughing over a picnic in the meadow, his mother dragging them both to their feet for a dance. 

Bilbo abandoning his parents as they sway to their own romantic music, babbling nonsensically to Myrtle as he weaves daisies into her hair. Myrtle running, unbidden, through an open field. Beorn’s field.

He is crying, the evidence steadily streaming down his face. Why, _why_ did he not leave her there? Had he not clung on so selfishly, she would be there now, happy and healthy. _Alive_. 

_No_. He knows it does no one any good to keep blaming himself. Myrtle would want him to carry these happy memories of her with him, not the imagined horrors that don’t exist.

Thorin’s fingers strum their last and Bilbo shudders in a breath. “It thought to make you smile—it was supposed to be a happy tune,” Thorin murmurs, perturbed by yet another turn in Bilbo’s mood. 

Bilbo laughs at the bizarre company he must make, given his recent tidal wave of emotions. No wonder Bofur and Oin still think he is completely mental. “It was lovely,” he says weakly. 

Bofur, who must have returned to the cabin some time during the song, assures him that there is nothing to be shy about; Thorin’s playing is infamous for bringing even the mightiest of warriors to tears. He should hear what this dwarrow can do with a full harp!

“I enjoyed your song very much, Thorin, really,” Bilbo assures him, once he has composed himself. “I could listen to you play all day,” he continues emphatically. “It’s just—you reminded me of something I need to do. I’ve put it off for long enough.” 

Thorin grips Bilbo’s upper arm in a way that leaves lasting heat. “Another time, then.” He dips his head slowly and rises to make his exit. He can feel the ghost of his hand long after its presence is gone.

“Whatever you do, _don’t_ try flowers,” he mutters to Bofur. 

“Duly noted,” the toy-maker replies drily, wiping up the spilled tea before it can stain his handiwork.

As the door to their cabin closes, Bofur remarks on Thorin’s increasing appearances; this is the third time this week. “ _What are we, chopped liver?_ ” Bifur signs with a snort. Bofur readily agrees. He confesses that, while he is glad for Thorin’s company, this is all rather strange and unusual. There is a trace of something like annoyance in his usually-full-bodied smile, and Bilbo imagines he feels put out by having to entertain on the spot.

Much as he would love to jump at the chance to delay his task by discussing their grievances, he has to do this now—before he loses the courage that Thorin’s song revived in him. He mumbles an excuse about needing to check on something, grabbing a shovel and heading outside. His final respects to Myrtle are long overdue. 

The field house he seeks is quiet and empty in the fading light of sunset. He lengthens his steps to prolong the inevitable. For a long while he cannot bring himself to look upon the door; he fears whatever condition he may find her in after all this time. Then again, it can be no worse than the horrors conjured in his nightmares. Whatever the case, he will honor and bury Myrtle as soon as possible; he owes her that much.

When he finally rounds the corner, he is surprised to find her head well-preserved and free of any lingering scent, aside from the mild acidic wash of whatever they used to keep her flesh in good condition. He can’t decide whether this reality is more disturbing than the grotesque, rotting skull he had imagined. She looks like a remarkably-realistic work of art rather than something that had once been part of a living, breathing creature. 

But Bilbo knows better; Myrtle was _real_.

“Oh, sweet girl. What have they done to you!?” he cries out. “I am so sorry; it’s all my fault.” He bows his head and tips it against her white-striped muzzle. “I should have let you go that day.” Her beautiful chestnut hair tickles his shoulder as he weeps. The notes of Thorin’s lyre replay in his head and he hums the few bars he can recall to her. 

After the notes run dry, he instead imagines the voice that Gandalf gave her, the one that sounded so like his father. Perhaps he imagined a little too hard, because he can almost hear it ringing in his ears…

_If this your mother knew, how her heart would break in two._

He pulls away at once to look at her face and he could swear he saw her blink. “Myrtle?!” He cups either side of the head’s long muzzle and stares. Yes, that knowing light is there, just as it was when she spoke to him before. “Gandalf’s spell! Can you still hear me?” She does not speak, yet he knows, _knows_ in his heart that she is listening, and the thought is morbid yet comforting all at once. “But—you’re dead.” 

It’s insane. It’s as wonderfully preposterous as a wizard enchanting a pony to talk. Beyond all rhyme or reason, he has regained this one small piece of his treasured friend. One single reminder of home.

All intentions of burying Myrtle’s remains disappear; instead, he tells her all that has transpired since his arrival in Erebor, from waking up in Oin’s chambers to making three unexpected friends. And, most of all, he recounts Lotho’s inexplicable crimes.

Facing his fears with Myrtle gives Bilbo the fortitude to confront Lotho at last. No longer will he bury his anger and pretend to be content with this flux state of living. He will march up to his cousin and _demand_ answers, even if he has to _force_ them out of him. 

“He won’t get away with this, I promise you,” he says firmly, stroking her soft muzzle one final time for the evening. “I am going to make him answer for what he did to you.”

Actually following through on his vow is more of a challenge. The cowardly half of him wishes he could avoid this altogether and chalk it up to logistical difficulties. As friends of the crown, Bifur or Bofur could put in a word royal family, even introduce him outright, but he can hardly air his grievances in their presence. He mentions this to Thorin, wondering if a servant of the palace might have the appropriate connections to get a message to Lotho. To both his gratitude and his dismay, Thorin guarantees them a meeting in person, and in private. 

He has no idea how Throin managed to pull such strings; he sincerely hopes the dwarrow isn’t risking his job by doing him such favors. Thorin laughs at this and tells him not to worry. Sadly, he cannot accompany Bilbo personally, which is a shame because his presence would have lent Bilbo a great deal of moral support. Instead, one of the dwarrow’s contacts will deliver him to his appointment. 

This is how Bilbo finds himself in Oin’s quarters once again, after the healer has gone home for the night. It feels so strange to be here after all this time. Memories from his first fateful night in Erebor return in waves. Instead of the pain and fear, they are laced with anger and confusion. Bilbo stretches his fingers out onto the wall to collect himself. He focuses on the stone, at where he is in the mountain, just scratching its surface. It serves to calm him a while, until a youthful-looking dwarrow with ginger hair arrives to collect him. 

“Hello, Mister Bilbo! My name is Ori, son of Miri. I am _so_ excited to meet you,” he says, quite unnecessarily; Bilbo could tell as much from the sheer enthusiasm of his handshake. “When Thorin told me there was a _second_ hobbit, I couldn’t believe it. But here you are! I simply _had_ to meet you.” 

Bilbo flushes as the dwarrow surveys him and takes notes in the behemoth of a notebook he carries on him. He wonders vaguely how Ori stores it on his person. “Fascinating. You’re a much more exemplary hobbit, aren’t you? All proper and planting, I mean, not like Lotho. Not that he’s bad,” he amends deftly. “He’s sort of like any other dwarrow around here, actually. I just thought he’d be different. Fi adores him though, and that’s what matters,” he concedes with a blithe shrug.

The mere mention of Bilbo’s cousin makes it feel real; he is truly going to face him. Emotions he has not let bubble past a light simmer since that day rise to the surface and they are _fierce_. On second thought, Bilbo is glad that Thorin isn’t here to witness this whole encounter. He can’t be liable for whatever he is about to unleash.

Ori leads Bilbo further into the mountain, the closest he has been to the palace since the day of his arrival. “I’m told he’s been avoiding you on purpose,” the dwarrow comments in a hushed whisper. 

“Of course he has, the coward,” Bilbo mutters furiously. Ori appears taken aback, but he doesn’t comment on Bilbo’s strange mood.

They arrive in a small courtyard, sheltered by tall stone columns and vines. It is completely deserted, save Lotho and the golden-haired prince. Bilbo is torn between the urge to walk right up to the other hobbit and slap him stupid—or to hide behind a column so that the prince won’t see him (again). He need not worry for long; the elder royal says something inaudible to Lotho, kisses his hand, and then retreats in the opposite direction. 

Bilbo isn’t sure if he’ll ever have another opportunity; this could be now or never. “If you please,” he tells Ori, “I would like a moment alone to talk to my _dear_ cousin.” Bilbo’s voice is colder than the Fell Winter, its malice foreign to his own ears. Ori shrinks back and complies without another word.

It is all Bilbo can do to keep in his rage until they are alone. He reveals himself to Lotho, savoring the stricken look on his face. All this time, he has waited calmly and quietly, bottling up everything. He has protected these dirty secrets and swallowed down the pain that they have wrought. 

“LOTHO AINSLEY SACKVILLE-BAGGINS,” he roars, his vision clouding with red, “WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF!?”

Lotho is cowering before him, despite being a few inches taller than his cousin. “I’m sorry,” he says lamely.

“You think some half-arsed apology is going to cut it?” He hisses, deathly soft. Bilbo’s rage has him trembling feverishly. “No. You owe me answers, and you had better start talking. _Now._ ”

The younger hobbit’s face is pale, his tone pleading. “She was _old_ , Bilbo! You ran her half to death across Middle Earth. Her legs looked about ready to give out—she would have died within the year anyway. Did you expect her to live forever?”

Bilbo screams, his voice piercing through the night. “Her _name_ was Myrtle. And you had her _slaughtered!_ ” 

In all his life Bilbo has never wanted to hurt someone so badly. If he had a weapon, no one could hold him responsible for what it might rend.

“I had to!” Lotho cries out. “If she talked, it would have ruined everything!” He reaches up to shield his head and face, shaking and expecting a blow, if not several.

Bilbo had not even realized his position, arm poised to strike. His limbs had moved of their own accord. 

He can see the trajectory of his strike, and he knows in that moment that Lotho will take it with nothing more than a whimper. He isn’t even trying to stop Bilbo; perhaps that knowledge is what stays Bilbo’s hand. It hangs suspended in midair until he is shaking, until… 

His fingers coil into a fist and swing back down to his side. “I saved you!” he spits out. “That day at Beorn’s house, I saved your ungrateful bloody life, and _this_ is how you repay me—by having my friend killed and her _head_ hung up on a door!?”

“I didn’t know.” Lotho sobs like he means it. “I’m _sorry_. I didn’t want to do it, I swear! They would have sent me away. And Fili—”

Bilbo’s teeth grit tight together. Finally, the excuse he expected to hear for Lotho’s treachery. “I _get_ that you love him, alright. But that’s no excuse! How do you think your husband will feel if he learns that this is how you treat your own family?”

There are tears pouring down Lotho’s face, hewn of guilt and sorrow and _anger_. “We’re _NOT_ family,” he grounds out, his voice hoarse with unfounded anguish. “You don’t understand. You could never understand.”

No. No, he really doesn’t. Because what right does _Lotho_ have to be angry in all this? He is making no sense, talking as if Bilbo is the one who hurt him, not the other way around. As if he did not just verbally disown his cousin without a second thought.

Lotho lets out a choked cry, his eyes cinching shut. He shakes his head and gives Bilbo one last loaded glare before running away.

The courtyard is too silent, too empty. That privacy that Bilbo had so desired to confront Lotho is now stifling. Ori returns to collect him, and not a moment too soon. He winces at Bilbo’s dark mood but asks how it went anyway.

“It solved nothing,” he mutters bitterly. “I don’t know why I tried.” Bilbo has no idea what to make of his cousin’s outburst. 

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” Ori gives him a sympathetic frown. “My brothers and I used to fight all the time. They had their reasons, especially Dori. He’s always been overprotective,” he recalls wistfully. The ginger dwarrow’s face is so _young_ , Bilbo thinks. Not nearly as young as Lotho, all tween angst and dramatics and stupidity. 

A fraction of Bilbo’s anger bleeds out of him and slowly contorts into shame. He is Lotho’s elder by two decades; it is _his_ responsibility to take the higher road and to model the appropriate behavior. Worst of all, Bilbo had been too busy imagining Lotho as nightmare fodder to think beyond his own self-centered preoccupations.

This goes beyond their own personal conflict; what matters most is protecting the Shire. There is a vengeful, spiteful stripe in him that would very much like to see his cousin fail, but not in _this_. Lotho’s immature manner of handling everything so far makes Bilbo feel less certain than ever about the fate of their people.

The hobbit follows Ori back to Oin’s chambers in uncomfortable silence. To his pleasant surprise, Thorin is there to meet them. He and the ginger dwarrow chat amicably until Bilbo clears his throat to cut them off. “I’m terribly sorry, but this is important—Can either of you tell me about the kingdom’s alliance with the Shire?”

Thorin hums in acknowledgment. “It fares well. Soon we will be able to start setting up defense outposts at points of interest and cover any areas exposed to goblin attacks.” 

“That is good to hear,” Bilbo sighs. “Bofur mentioned that the alliance is more fragile than I’d been led to believe. Do you know... Is Lotho doing his part?”

“Fili’s consort has the makings of a promising statesman,” Thorin confirms. He goes on to explain that the loss of Shire maps during Bilbo and Lotho’s travels caused some initial delays. Ori cuts in then, supremely impressed by Lotho’s intimate knowledge of the land’s geography and layout; he has helped the court cartographer recreate them— _from memory!_ —and provides the council meetings with invaluable information. 

“Indeed,” Throin agrees, taking back the reins of conversation. “However, he must also succeed in his proposal to Dain. I—” He pauses abruptly and exchanges a curious look with Ori. “I... assure you, Erebor honors its promises; troops _will_ be sent to protect your land. However, our forces in the far west may be spread too thin if the war worsens in Ered Luin. Our mightiest general is there right now, and while I trust her tactical maneuvering with my life, even she cannot fight two armies alone with one small diplomatic battalion. Lord Dain’s aid would be invaluable for everyone.”

His words grip Bilbo’s heart like ice. He knew that the situation in the Blue Mountains was worsening, but he had not bothered to ponder the consequences to other dwarven kingdoms. The Thain had all but declared Erebor to be their savior, and this alliance one instant and miraculous solution to their problems. He had never been told to worry about what would happen should it _fail_.

This burden is far too important to leave to Lotho alone. He will not stoop to Lotho’s level or ruin his marriage to Fili—if he can help it. But if his cousin does not sway Lord Dain, Bilbo may have no choice but to reveal himself and attempt some kind of damage control for the sake of hobbitkind.

Even if things are never mended between them personally, he has to find out if Lotho knows what he is doing. The idea of confronting him again so soon makes Bilbo’s skin crawl. His cousin’s apologies give him whiplash; he sounded sincerely contrite, and yet he turned the entire thing around on Bilbo in the end. How is he supposed to believe anything his cousin says? No, he cannot not let this conflict go unresolved. 

He doesn’t care if he has to wait over a fortnight—he will have his meeting with Lotho. Bilbo asks of Thorin this one additional favor, and his friend solemnly swears to make it happen. The date is set. 

* * *

As harvest time rolls around, Erebor’s fields draw in the most splendid bounty that a kingdom of dwarrows have ever seen. Even the Esgarothians, who have been in the business tending land for way longer, are impressed by their yield. 

There is still work to be done in the field, but once the harvest is fully underway, Bofur’s field hands take over most of the heavy lifting. Bilbo’s duties lighten considerably—that is, until Bombur, Erebor’s famous lead chef, begs for his assistance in the palace kitchens, eager to test the culinary prowess of hobbits. 

Bilbo soon finds himself as busy as before and then some, run practically ragged by the third of the brothers Ur. (Or are they cousins? Bilbo still doesn’t know). The jolly redhead proves most capable when it comes to creating dishes from practically nothing, but a few of the crops Bilbo planted are completely foreign to dwarven palates, including the herbs that have begun to flourish for harvest. He wants to learn every hobbitish recipe there is _and_ train all of his sous chefs to make them. Erebor’s upcoming Durin’s Day celebration will, without question, be a feast to remember.

They are making savory pies today, with mushrooms and peas. Bilbo works his dough flat with vigor and converses with the head chef to calm his nerves. He is ready to finally meet with Lotho again later today; the wait has been long and tenuous. 

Bombur is quite put out by the fact that Bilbo is denying him access to certain Baggins family secrets, but he can appreciate the sentiment as a fellow culinary artiste. They do strike one small accord, a compromise: Longo’s huckleberry tart recipe for Bombur’s exquisite almond-cinnamon buns, Bilbo’s father forgive him. He has blown through enough of them when his roommates’ share their goodie stash to know that the trade is well worth it. 

When Bombur casually announces that Bilbo has a visitor, the hobbit’s dough falls to the stone counter with a soft _plop_. This early? He hopes nothing is wrong. He throws his smock up on its hook and quickly brushes some of the flour from his legs before dashing right out of the kitchens.

Instead of Ori, Thorin is waiting for him, and Bilbo couldn’t be gladder for the sight of him. He is dressed up a little more than usual, looking extra regal in his green velvet tunic with silver buttons. Honestly, the dwarrow is so handsome he could wear naught but a potato sack and _still_ attract suitors like flies. If Bilbo’s cheeks grow hot, well—it _is_ midday, and warm for the middle of autumn.

Their conversation starts off with the usual niceties, then lapses into the usual topics, namely work. Bilbo does not wish to squander precious time alone with Thorin. They talk to each other more often now, yes, but most of their interactions transpire in a party of four. “Let us speak of other things,” he suggests. Bilbo flushes, realizing that he has lapsed into Thorin’s overly-formal speech, as a result of hearing and thinking about it so often. 

“Very well. Have you any thoughts on the royal family?” Thorin asks, his tone searching. 

Bilbo blinks, taken aback by the dwarrow’s random choice in topic. “I’m not sure why you’re asking me; _you’re_ the one who sees them on a regular basis.” he deflects. “I hardly know anything about them.”

Thorin shrugs. “I find the opinions of all Erebor’s subjects to be enlightening and valuable. Indulge me?”

“ _Fine_. I suppose... They have done a wonderful job rebuilding all of this in so little time. And from what I gather, they love their people and are loved in return.”

“Yet you flee at the sight of our Crowned Prince,” Thorin counters. He cites Bilbo’s disastrous interaction (or lack thereof) with Fili at the market, which Bofur must have let slip. They’ll be having words about this when he gets home.

Their conversation is heading dangerously close to the territory of Bilbo’s secret. “I—I just felt awkward, is all. Clammed up and, erm, didn’t know what to do in the presence of royalty.”

“Fair enough. What say you about the King Under the Mountain?” Thorin presses.

“The king?” Bilbo fondly remembers the gift that he had received in Lord Elrond’s halls. “Well, he’s very generous, and he clearly cares about his people. And he has excellent taste in gifts,” He laughs. Thorin stares and waits for him to elaborate. “I mean, he sent armor to the prince’s betrothed. Mithril, I think it’s called.”

His friend nods. “Exceedingly rare and expensive. The definition of extravagance. It is the favorite metal of most every dwarrow.”

“I’m sure Lotho appreciates it,” Bilbo snarks. “He’s obsessed with that sort of thing.”

“Your kinsman does not wear it,” he notes, taking the hobbit by surprise. “Would you like to have such a gift?”

Bilbo sighs. “It _is_ beautiful,” he concedes. He supposes he’ll never touch the starlit metal ever again. “When we were attacked, I felt safer just to have it near. I think it made me feel braver than I ever thought I could be.” _Unstabbable._ He laughs internally at the memory of his drunken self. “The king could have sent armor made of tin, for all I care—it’s the thought that counts.”

“He _should_ have sent a squadron of personal guards,” Thorin grumbles hotly. “At the very least, a second set of mail for you.”

“That's hardly fair; we never told him we were bringing along an extra person,” Bilbo points out. “Anyway, I doubt he knows I exist, and I’d prefer to keep it that way,” he mutters tightly. “Besides, it was all Gandalf’s idea not to bring bodyguards.”

“Hang that blasted meddling wizard!” Thorin curses. “The king should have overruled him.” It doesn’t surprise Bilbo; who _doesn’t_ have a bone to pick with the most infamous wizard in Middle Earth? 

When the dwarrow finally stops his fussing, he turns back to Bilbo, his churlish mood softening to one of deep concern. “Your safety is worth more than a mountain full of Mithril.” 

Bilbo forgets to breathe. He has to fight the urge to kiss Thorin then and there. _Well_. That is an interesting development. One he shall have to tell Myrtle all about.

As per usual, he and Thorin are parted early by their respective duties. As soon as Bilbo is done helping Bombur for the day, he rushes out to the field house to share the news with his confidante. He unloads _everything_ in nonsensical freeform, from the droll happenings of these past few days to thoughts for the future: his budding attraction to Thorin, Bombur’s recipe for walnut sticky buns, which songs he should pick to sing for the next mini concert with his roomates. His pending second meeting with Lotho. 

“I think I’m the happiest I’ve ever been,” he sighs to Myrtle’s hanging head. She listens on with ever-knowing eyes. 

There was a time when his books and armchair had been enough. His childhood fantasies of running off to lands unknown had quieted to a low simmer; he had a place, he had a purpose. He helped his father tend the land until his passing, then he had to make his mother comfortable through her twilight years. He had neither time nor reason to leave, nor had he wanted to. The Shire had been his safe and serene little world, perfect as a dream.

These past few months have turned Bilbo’s entire life inside out. They have forced him to open his eyes, to make changes he never knew he needed. He had spent so much time focusing on what he had lost, instead of the treasures that lay right before his eyes.

If only he could be sure that the Shire was in safe hands, then he wouldn’t have to lose this. But if the royal family found out… “What if they made me marry Fili after all?” he wonders aloud, morosely stroking Myrtle’s mane. He doesn’t want to even entertain the idea, but there is still a very real possibility. “I don’t know if I could go through with it.” He needed to work things out with Lotho, he _had_ to— 

A soft swear in Khuzdul captures his attention. _Uh-oh_. Bilbo looks over his shoulder and Bifur is standing there, eyes wide as saucers. A pail of feed lays spilled on the ground at his side. He has heard more than enough. “ _It was you._ You’re _the one who’s meant to marry Fili_.”

Bilbo’s mouth works uselessly; how could he have been so careless with his words!? “... _Yes_ ,” Bilbo sucks in a breath and signs back. “ _The Thain sent me, not my cousin._ ”

“ _The lord-prince lied. He_ betrayed _you!”_ A colorful strand of insults, peppered with threats against the deceitful young hobbit’s life follows. Bilbo winces and shakes his head, but it falls on blind eyes. _“He has committed the most grievous of insults, acting in your stead!_ ”

“What you need to understand about that is—” 

“ _—I’d do it myself, but I’m sure the king will demand the first crack at him.”_

Bilbo squeaks, horrified by both the prospect of bloodshed on his behalf and Bifur’s idea. “No, Bif, you can’t tell anyone, especially not the king! _Please_ —It would ruin everything! _”_

Something in Bilbo breaks because he knows where he’s heard those words before. He is beginning to understand, on some level, just how easy it was to get caught up in all the lies and fear when you have so much to lose. He recounts the entirety of Lotho’s scheming, up to and including their pending second meeting tonight. It feels incredible to be able to talk about this with someone other than Myrtle. 

“Don’t you see?” he whispers. “I’d have to get married and live in the palace. I’d have to leave you all.”

_“I’ll keep your secret, cross my heart._ ” Bifur follows the vow with a clear motion, alleviating Bilbo’s worries. “ _You should never be forced to do something you don’t want to do_.” Then he scowls low into his wiry, two-toned beard. “ _I still want to throttle him.”_

“I nearly did myself,” Bilbo confesses with a soft snort. 

Something other than anger darkens Bifur’s soulful eyes, a pinch of sorrow and a dash of remorse. “ _He made me hurt you._ ” Now _t_ _here_ is the heart of it. 

“None of this is your fault!” Bilbo swears fervently. “I never _once_ blamed you for what happened to Myrtle,” He reaches back to pat the deceased mare’s hair. “Strange as it is, I’m actually glad you kept her for me after all. She’s a wonderful listener.” 

“ _Madcap, you are._ ” Ah, right. Bilbo _was_ using a decapitated head in lieu of a diary, so he supposes the assessment is rightly fair this time. “ _B_ _ilbo. You can always talk to me about anything._ ”

“I know.” Bilbo releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you with this before. I was afraid, and stupid.”

Bifur clasps Bilbo’s forearm, and the hobbit answers his familiar, comforting gesture. It tells them both that things are right between them. Better than before, in fact. _“I’d sooner die than cause you pain._ ”

“And I you, Bif. You’re my best friend.”

The words leave his mouth before he is able to comprehend their significance. They feel… right. He may not have known Bifur for very long, but even so he cannot imagine life without him. Laughing together, growing together, learning new things. Who else can riff his own version of ♪ [ Morgoth’s epic disaster of a musical solo ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h_gD45ngr_E) ♪ off the cuff in one moment—reducing Bilbo to a puddle of hysterical giggles—and soothe him through the worst of his nightmares in the next? Who told him that he is _strong and capable and you_ will _get through this_ as many times as needed to get the message through his thick Took skull? Yes, he will forever treasure his old friends from Hobbiton, and perhaps even return to them, but Bifur will always hold a special place in his heart. 

“...Best _friend?_ ”

“Yeah,” he half-laughs, half-sniffles. “You’re my favorite. Don’t tell Bo?”

Bilbo joins Bifur up at the stables for the rest of the afternoon and helps brush and water the rest of his equine charges. He regrets having avoided them for so long because they are beautiful creatures who deserve nothing less than to be admired day and night— _Yes you are!_ If only he had a few ripe apples to spare; pity it’s too early in the season.

As the hour of his meeting with Lotho draws near, Bifur lends some much-needed moral support and walks with him back up to Oin’s chambers. A dark-haired, bright-eyed dwarrow is waiting in the healer’s doorway, waving at them and grinning impishly. “Hullo Bif,” he chirps. “And this must be Mister Boggins!”

Bifur says something in Khuzdul that makes the mischievous dwarrow’s grin widen further. “Nah, Ori couldn’t make it this time. He’s stuck going over the council meeting notes with Balin. I don’t envy him,” he adds with a grimace.

There is something familiar about him, his dark hair and fine features. The quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder slots the last puzzle piece into place. “You’re Thorin’s nephew!” Bilbo guesses. “He’s mentioned you and your brother loads of times, but I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”

“Yup, I’m Ki—” He stops short, the sound catching in his throat. “...Er?” The dwarrow fidgets and pops the last syllable like a question. 

Bilbo blinks owlishly and looks at Bifur for answers. The horsemaster is glaring at the young dwarrow as though he is the worst kind of imbecile. “ _...Kir_ _?_ ” Bilbo annunciates slowly, trying not to sound overly-condescending. He can’t _possibly_ have forgotten his own name, can he? How on earth does one even manage that?

“Yup, that’s me. Kir, son of—Bir. At your service!”

“Riiight,” Bilbo says, eyes narrowing dubiously.

Bifur says his goodbyes and wishes Bilbo luck with a comforting pat on the back. Then, the hobbit is left alone with this strange archer, much to his chagrin. “Thank you for coming in Ori’s place,” he murmurs, his stomach gurgling with nerves. He _hates_ confrontations. “Let’s make this quick,” 

“No problem! I can’t stay long meself,” the brunette concurs. “My wife and I are going on an epic night hunt!”

“How romantic,” says Bilbo drily.

Kir answers in the affirmative, not taking the meaning of the hobbit’s tone. “I’ll never match her for speed or aim; she is heaven to watch in her craft,” he sighs, starry-eyed, “and a good sport to boot. She always leaves something for me to catch.”

“Well, come this harvest, you won’t need to harass any defenseless animals come winter! There will be enough food to feed Erebor’s army thrice over.”

“Then I’ll hunt goblins instead.” Kir grins, unperturbed. “They make for better sport.” Bilbo hates the idea of harming anything or anyone, but he supposes it is fair game when the opposing party is constantly trying to kill you.

The young dwarrow leads him to a different place this time, a small nondescript alcove. Better this than outside, since it is still daytime. “We had to trick him into coming around last time, but this one was a cinch. He wants to talk to you too—I think.” His voice is far too eager and anticipatory, as through Bilbo’s argument with Lotho is an entertaining theatrical performance.

Lotho and Prince Fili are waiting for them, and to Bilbo’s horror, the blonde walks right up to him, and for one split second Bilbo thinks he _knows_. “You have until the next bell rings,” he proclaims before promptly dragging Kir away to give them some privacy.

The seconds tick by without a word. Lotho’s eyes are trained on the marble floor, and Bilbo doesn’t know where to begin. He _should_ concentrate first and foremost on the alliance, but all sense flies away in the face of this unbearable tension.

“…”

He doesn’t expect his cousin to break the silence first, let alone to look him in the eye. “I shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry,” he says, much firmer than the last time. “It was completely unfair of me.”

That’s rich. “ _Unfair?_ ” Bilbo parrots incredulously. 

“It was—wrong,” the younger hobbit admits. “I know that now.” 

“But you don’t regret what you did, do you?” he mutters bitterly. “You don’t care about Myrtle, or me. You don’t care about me or anyone but yourself,” Bilbo accuses.

“Please, Bilbo, I never meant for it to be like this. I only did it for Fili.” He bows his head and whispers another apology, and a plea for forgiveness. “I didn’t know how much your pony’s death would hurt you. If I could take it back, I would in a heartbeat.”

“You didn’t come here to apologize; you just want to make sure I keep my mouth shut!” His fingers are shaking worse than last time, itching to move from coiled fists.

A beat passes. Whatever Bilbo had hoped to accomplish with his harsh words, it wasn’t the sheen of tears on his cousin’s face. He doesn’t trust those wide, grey eyes, so young and so lost. He cannot allow himself to fall for the gleam of remorse, no matter how believable its apparent sincerity.

Even if Lotho truly means his apologies, what difference does it make? Myrtle is dead, and all Bilbo has left is a macabre piece of her. Never again will he ride with her through the green pastures of the Shire. She will never feel the wind on her fur, never speak to him in that hauntingly familiar voice. How can he forgive and forget, and walk away like nothing happened? 

Yavanna help him, Bilbo cannot fathom how to feel. He has built the stirrings of a deep and lasting happiness here in Erebor, thousands of miles away from home. However, its very foundation remains tainted by Lotho’s deeds, the nightmare that refuses to vacate his life completely. 

He is not yet ready to let go of his hurt and his anger. “You’re a slimy, smarmy, selfish git,” he grounds out. “You cost me a dear friend, and the only thing I had to remember my father by. I can’t go home—your parents took over Bag End, in case you’ve forgotten—I can’t think or _breathe_ without swallowing your family’s lies!”

Lotho pales and casts his eyes back down to the floor. “You’re right about me. I don’t deserve to be here; I don’t deserve Fili or any of it.” He doesn’t even move to get away from Bilbo’s wrath. “I can’t fathom why you ever saved me.”

“ _S_ _ome_ of us don’t require a hidden motive to do the right thing.” A low blow, but well-deserved. Bilbo whips his hands about in nonsensical gesticulation, if only to release some of the tangible frustration. “It’s what you do for family,” he grounds out. “Or maybe you’re unfamiliar with the concept!”

He has hit a sore spot, given his cousin’s blotchy, angry flush and backward flinch, but when Lotho speaks his voice is quiet and unvexed. “We’re not related.”

Again with this utter nonsense! “Since when do cousins once removed not count?” Bilbo snorts. Sure, they don’t exactly have a weekly Sunday brunch together or exchange birthday gifts, but still.

“We’re _not_ ,” Lotho repeats shortly. “The man my mother married—he’s not my father.”

Bilbo is immobilized, as are all questions of retribution or forgiveness. 

Of all the possible explanations he had expected this hobbit to conjure for his words, he had never entertained one quite so literal.

He listens, transfixed, as Lotho explains the ‘arrangement’ his parents made to ensure his begetting. Lotho’s very existence is tied up in status and self-loathing; Otho could not sire children, and neither could Lobelia remain in her parents’ favor without granting them at least one grandchild. Years of caving to external pressure had put such a strain on their marriage to the point where they couldn’t stand the sight of each other.

Otho and Lobelia surface to the forefront of Bilbo’s imagination, cold and beady-eyed as he has come to know them. But if he delves back into the deepest recesses of memory, there are long-buried moments from long ago. The vague outline of his cousin-in-law, the once-spirited and beautiful Bracegirdle lass who stole young Otho’s heart with her mother’s famous river dance. Cousin Otho himself had always been quiet and gruff, unapproachable until Lobelia came into his life.

They were happy, weren’t they? They had looked at each other the way that Bilbo’s parents looked at each other, he was sure of it. Every bit the portrait-perfect couple they were supposed to be. 

Until they weren’t. 

When did she become so unhappy, so consumed by lusting after the ancestral Baggins home? When did his timidity devolve into a spirit so cold and thin that, on his worst days, he looked as though he could crumble into the wind? Bilbo knows not how or when. But now he knows part of the reason _why_.

His childhood assumptions are catching up to him now. The interloper who sired Lotho—a vague, shadowy figure in Bilbo’s mind—fades and leaves in his wake a ruined marriage, a broken home. A cracked glass smial blown of pretending.

“Now you know,” Lotho exhales, “for all the good it does. Fili said I should tell you. So there; you don’t have to hold back for the sake of shared kinship.”

Instead of the strike Lotho is anticipating, Bilbo gathers him into a hug. He can feel the palpable shock coming off the younger hobbit in waves. And then Lotho is sobbing into Bilbo’s shirt as the elder of the two croons nonsensical words of comfort and endearment. 

Bilbo stares blankly over his cousin’s head, overcome but the shock of it all. He doesn’t even know what to say about Otho. But Lobelia? Given her overbearing and covetous attitude, he doubts that she gave Lotho her blessing to come here. 

“Your mother—have you written her at all? She must be worried sick.”

Lotho’s answering laugh is hollow and cold. “She doesn’t give a damn. Probably glad to be rid of me.”

Bilbo rests his chin atop Lotho’s head and smooths the younger hobbit’s dark curls. He can’t recall the last time he saw her smile, let alone show any emotion in public but contempt. “I’m sure she loves you, in her way,” he murmurs, trying to offer what little comfort he can. 

“Easy for you to say; you were wanted,” Lotho retorts. “You could dress in rags and be the world’s most terrible farmer and _still_ make everyone love you.”

He is right about one thing; Bilbo will never be able to truly understand. He can try his best to empathize, but he has no context for his cousin’s pain; the lonely years after his parents’ deaths pale in comparison to a lifetime of emptiness. He can’t begin to comprehend what it feels like to be so alone. To feel so undesirable that a single scrap of affection from a stranger’s written words has him leaping like a dog to its master. So desperate that he would _kill_ for a single ounce of kindness.

But Bilbo does recognize the sound of deflection when he hears it. “Lotho… Did they hurt you?”

His cousin flinches through his tears. “I-I don’t—” 

Bilbo’s stomach bottoms out. He backs off and soothes the lad back into a calmer state, assuring him that he need not verbalize old wounds and memories. Bilbo does not want to be the instigator of more nightmares. 

But Lotho takes a shaky breath and continues. “After Mimi died...” His grandmother, Primrose Boffin, rest her spirit—Bilbo knew her mostly by her famous variation on an old circle dance, passed down and still performed during festivals to this day. She had been taken by the Fell Winter not long before Bilbo’s father. Which means Lotho has suffered all these years without her protection. “...and a few times, when the main plot got flooded. Those were the worst spells.” 

He needn’t continue for Bilbo to get the picture. Everything about Lotho starts to make a great deal more sense. His withdrawn nature—not an inherited trait at all, but one learned—his constant fear and self-doubt, his lack of love for the Shire. 

Why he would dive head-first to drowning for a scrap of affection from someone he had never met. Why he would sit here, waiting to be struck and ready to take it. 

“If I ever see those—those nasty, abominable cretins ever again—!” He shakes in his fervor, rocking the younger hobbit with it.

“It was a long time ago,” Lotho murmurs. This does absolutely nothing to stem the tide of questions, shock, and _rage_ Bilbo now feels. ‘When’ and ‘why’ don’t matter; that it happened at all is unacceptable!

Dear Eru, how had no one ever noticed? Or worse—if they had, but chose to do nothing. Bilbo’s anger, no longer directed at Lotho himself, turns toward every other hobbit that had ever known those miserable Sackville-Bagginses—including himself. 

“I’m sorry. Lotho, I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I should have noticed—I should have been there for you.”

“Don’t—please.” Lotho’s dark curls shake as he pulls back, distraught. “You barely knew me.” He looks miserable, and Bilbo doesn’t want to make him relive this, but neither can he _not_ respond. 

“It doesn’t matter. You never should have had to go through that—it shouldn’t have been allowed to _continue!_ ”

“Mother caught him, when I broke the cellar door. He never laid a hand to me after that.” Bilbo is about to interject that she is just as guilty as anyone, but then Lotho is speaking again. “I think what I hated the most isn’t anything she _did_ exactly. It’s just…” He bites his lip and Bilbo can practically see the spark of a happier memory come to life in his eyes. “Remember that time your mum told us the story about the woodcutter and the fairy?”

Bilbo recalls it easily, mostly because Lotho begged her to tell it three times over. The two of them, Bilbo in his tweens and Lotho a little fauntling, sat huddled in Belladonna’s lap by the fire entranced by the cadence of her voice. It was a story about being rewarded for one’s honesty. Bungo made them honeyed teacakes and they stayed up into the wee hours of night. Bilbo helped his little cousin sneak extra helpings when they thought no one was looking. Lotho grins at the mention of the cakes. “I thought ‘this is what it’s supposed to be like,’” he sighs. “I never wanted to leave.” 

A shadow overtakes that fond vision, twisting it back into discontent. “All Mother ever talked about was getting your wretched smial. I think she deluded herself into believing that if we lived in a place like Bag End, it would magically fix everything. Well, she’s got her wish now,” he mutters darkly. 

A vengeful smirk pulls at the corner of Bilbo’s lips. “We should set it on fire, just to spite them.”

That startles Lotho into an incredulous guffaw. “Wouldn’t that be something?” He pulls away from Bilbo’s embrace to lean against the windowsill. “I expect I’ll be back there before long.”

“I am _not_ making you go back there!” Bilbo swears fervently, and Lotho sags against him with a relieved exhale. “I’m not going to ruin your marriage to Fili either, if I can help it.” Bilbo assures him. If all goes to plan with the alliance, neither of them have to lose the foundations they have built here.

They have so much more to discuss and not nearly enough time, chiefly the impending fate of their homeland. Lotho manages to convey the gist of his progress, some of which Bilbo has heard secondhand from Thorin. So much rests on the lad’s shoulders; he has exactly two weeks left to prepare his presentation for the lord of the Iron Hills.

The bell rings loud and clear from the eastern tower. They agree to meet again in two days’ time to discuss and strategize, hobbit to hobbit. Things aren’t completely right between them, not by a long shot. But Bilbo can feel the knots in his heart beginning to unwind, satisfied by answers if not full closure.

“What you did to Myrtle is still completely desperately wrong,” he admonishes softly in their parting hug. “And the lying.”

“I know.” Lotho’s voice is guilt-laden and muffled against his shoulder. 

“But—I also know that I wouldn’t give up a single minute here either.” Erebor is not and could never be the Shire, but there is something about this place—something to which Bilbo can’t quite put a name.

He looks on fondly from the shadows as Lotho reunites with Fili; their mutual adoration is as clear as cut diamond. How can Bilbo blame him for seizing a chance at happiness? The lad could have done far worse, and for lesser reasons. In all honesty, as someone who had been close enough to do something about Lotho’s situation but never did, his trivial problems feel something like just desserts. 

Bilbo will need the aid of his dream charms tonight; his head clamors with so many thoughts, so loud that surely someone in the palace can hear them churning. With one last glance at the hobbit and the prince, he turns around and slips away in the night.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Fuslkckjoaja, imma cry 😭 🥰 Lotho, you are still teh biggest little shit. 
> 
> Let’s hear it for Bilbo & Bifur--can somebody get these two a pair of matching BFF bracelets, please? My undying friend-ship. <3 <3 <3
> 
> Thank you again for sticking with this story, as well as leaving kudos and reviews! <3 Last chapter coming veeeery soon. ^_^


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for tuning in for the last leg of this little tale! Wow, did not expect the outpouring of visceral reactions to Lotho. He certainly has a lot to answer for, much of which will be addressed in an upcoming companion from Fili’s POV. See post-work notes for more info!
> 
> WARNINGS for this chapter: minor mentions of past abuse
> 
> Music for this chapter: This last song (linked below again in-story) is part of a longer lyre music compilation, which I recommend in its entirety, perfect for study sessions or soothing spa nights. <3 You’ll want to skip to 32:00 at the start of the section. ♪ [Bilbo and Thorin’s Love Theme](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_bYldqEjOUA) ♪

* * *

_Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,_

_The world offers itself to your imagination._

_Calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting,_

_Over and over announcing your place in the family of things._

~From _Wild Geese_ by Mary Oliver

* * *

In the wake of Lotho’s earth-shattering revelation, Bilbo has been living in the private hell of his own inner monologue. As the only person privy to everything that transpired between the two (not-) cousins, Bifur is there to hear the lot of it. Bilbo spares him the major details of his cousin’s past, because it isn’t his story to tell. That just leaves them with the steaming pile of trouble he already had _before_ the proverbial dam broke _._

“ _We’ve been over this; stop worrying so much._ ” Bilbo tosses Bifur a scathing look. As if it’s that simple. “ _I_ _t’ll all work out. Whatever happens, I guarantee that no one will force you to marry Fili_.” He wants to believe Bifur, he really does, but the horsemaster refuses to reveal his sources. _“What I_ can _tell you is that they deserve a swift kick in the nuts_."

Oh, confound it all! Forget the marriage—Bilbo needs to concentrate on the real issue at hand, namely _saving his entire homeland_. He wishes that there was a way to actively take part in the negotiations. But, were he to come forth as a co-negotiator, what would the lords think of a hare-brained eleventh hour intervention made by some unknown hobbit? 

No, there is nothing he can do except wait it out for the next 48 hours, a fact Bilbo staunchly resents. He is highly considering sharing his worries with Thorin when the dwarrow comes round for elevenses. 

The matter is all but forgotten when he fixes Bilbo with that enchanting blue gaze and invites him out for a stroll. They walk and talk together, following the long, thin stream that skirts past the city’s massive gates and stretches out from the lake beyond. Bilbo is no stranger to the Lonely Mountain’s beauty anymore, but it never fails to impress. 

After a while, Thorin stops and bends down out of the blue. Something small and white has caught his eye: a stray piece of fabric clinging to a small, jagged rock, and flapping about in the breeze. He scoops up his prize and holds it out for Bilbo’s inspection. 

The hobbit cannot believe his eyes; there, in the palm of Thorin’s broad, strong hand, is his mother’s kerchief. “You found it!” he gasps. He takes the token with reverent care. Pure joy washes over him at its familiar touch.

“A pocket handkerchief?” Thorin’s eyes narrow in puzzlement. “It has seen better days. I can bring you a finer one from the market.” 

Bilbo shakes his head vehemently. “Nothing could replace this. My mother and I made it together. See the stitching here? These are some of my very first attempts.” His thumbs trace the outline of a garden goose, its pale grey threads faded by time and the elements. There is a part near the wing that does not match the elegant handling of the rest, but his mother had refused to undo them. She insisted that his hand in it, practiced or not, made for a better whole.

There could be no greater balm for the anxieties that have been plaguing him. “I was sure I had lost it forever,” he whispers. 

Of all the physical possessions that could have been returned to him, this one small thing is by far the best. Bilbo has to ask himself: if he could get the rest of it back, would he? If it meant forgetting the journey of his lifetime or his short stay here in Erebor—the friends he has made, the fulfilling work that he has done and has yet to do. This beautiful, tender thing unfurling between him and Thorin? 

One look into storm-blue eyes tells Bilbo what his heart already knows; he wouldn’t trade a single moment, not for a hundred Bag Ends.

“Bilbo… There is something I have been meaning to say to you.”

“Thorin,” he breathes, and this time he cannot stop himself. Their lips collide in imperfect harmony. His hands are in Thorin’s hair and the dwarrow’s arms around his waist. Thorin takes control with ease and kisses Bilbo breathless, lifting him several inches off the ground. 

When at long last they part, Thorin holds Bilbo flush against his chest. Long, calloused fingers brush against the hobbit’s pulse-point, drawing from him a hitched breath. “I dared not hope that you would return my affections.”

“And here I thought I’d done a horrendous job of hiding it,” Bilbo laughs, his nose tickled by the dwarrow’s short-cropped beard. “My dear, I have been enamored of you for quite some time.”

Thorin’s eyes darken, his radiant smile tightening, and for one excruciating moment, Bilbo fears that this is one of the terrible romance serials he reads brought to life: Thorin will reject him after all and declare their kiss to be a mistake, shattering the fever dream that this must surely be. 

“What of Bofur?”

Bilbo screws up his nose, utterly confused. “What _of_ Bofur?”

“He cares for you, deeply. If you never held him in any romantic regard, then why did you accept his courting gift?” Thorin’s tenor holds such confusion and hurt that Bilbo’s heart aches for him; he wants to kiss all his worry away. “He is a treasured friend; I would not see him lead cruelly astray.”

“What on Arda...?” Bilbo thinks back, racking his brain for the source of this misunderstanding and piecing together what he has learned about romance in dwarven culture these past months. Tokens of intent are very personal and intricate, the work of one’s own two hands… “The clock!” he gasps. “That’s no courting gift; Bofur made it to help with my nightmares. It’s practically a present to himself, and Bifur too. Trust me, we all benefit from the extra sleep.”

Thorin’s relief is palpable. “That explains the amethyst. The lack of braids as well. My deepest apologies for jumping to conclusions—and for questioning your intentions. It will not happen again.”

He clears his throat and takes hold of Bilbo’s hands. “Bilbo Baggins, you are the most captivating person I have ever met. I would aim to know you even better. My duties often keep me detained, but I will break away as often as possible to treat with you—if that is something you desire as well.”

Bilbo nods so hard his whole body shakes—there it goes again, doing silly things without informed permission from his brain. He leaps back into Thorin’s arms once more, readily accepted.

“Already, we have broken all semblance of propriety,” Thorin— _Bilbo’s beau!_ —chuckles, a whisper that tickles his ear. “I confess, I have been selfish, keeping you all to myself. My family has been pestering me nonstop about all the disappearances. I wished to shield you from them for as long as possible.”

“Will they disapprove?” Bilbo asks dejectedly. “Because I’m not a dwarrow?”

“It’s not that. They can be—overwhelming, at the best of times. My sister in particular.” Bilbo rolls his eyes at Thorin’s melodramatic grimace. How bad can she possibly be? “Once the excitement of Durin’s Day has passed, I shall introduce you to them properly and set this matter straight.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Bilbo replies in understanding. “Family can be the best _and_ the worst.”

The noon bell parts them all too soon. They make their hurried goodbyes with gentle touches and fleeting kisses. 

Bilbo is over the _moon_. He doesn’t care that he has missed luncheon entirely; he has to go to the stables _this instant._ With a stripe of concern, Bifur inquires as to whether or not he is well—as he should, for proper hobbits do not just go around skipping meals willy-nilly. 

In the middle of Bilbo’s detailed summation of their romantic rendezvous, Bofur pops in to join them. “You and Thorin, huh?” The woodcarver blows a low whistle, grinning from ear to ear. “About time.”

Bifur utters something loud and guttural in Khuzdul before adding in Iglishmêk, “ _Bo, get this!”_ He waggles his bushy eyebrows for comical effect. “ _That gold-for-brains thought_ you _and_ Bilbo _were an item. Can you believe it?”_

There is a split second’s pause, and then Bofur is _dying_. He cackles and rolls back against one annoyed pony’s stall, clutching his stomach. Bifur joins him heartily, slapping his knee. 

His friend wipes a stray tear from his eye. “Och, it ’xplains _so_ much. Thorin’s always been a right brooding bugger, but lately he’s worse than a wounded badger! Not ’round ye, o’ course, but in private—pulled me aside the other week, ’e did. All that malarky abou’ onyx and amethyst. ‘Promise ye’ll take good care of ’im, Bo,’ ’e says, so serious-like.” 

Bofur grins, grabs Bilbo by the shoulders, and croons: “Oh, Bilbo, luv, it never would have worked between us. Ye’r right pretty, but mad as a loon! Dodged an arrow, I reckon.” 

“You _wound_ me, good sir!” Bilbo guffaws in mock-indignation, clapping a hand over his heart. He is too caught up in the joke to feel truly insulted. Damned dwarrow and his infectious laugh.

They carry on for a while with talk of romance: classic dwarrow love songs, courting traditions, the works. It baffles Bilbo how elaborate and complicated dwarrow weddings can be, but he certainly enjoys Bifur’s recollection of the festivities for Mizim and Gloin. He would like to attend Lotho and Fili’s wedding, just to see what one looks like in person—if that will even be possible.

That thought reminds Bilbo to return home and tidy up their living space for tea. This time, Lotho is coming to him. They agreed that meeting out here would be preferable to skulking about the palace like a pair of shifty thieves. As Bilbo sets out refreshments he is reminded of the lovely tea parties and dinners that he and his parents hosted once upon a time. It feels odd to play host for anyone who isn’t Bofur, Bifur, or Thorin. Odd, but pleasant.

There is a knock at the door. Bilbo rushes to open it at once. A tall dwarrow with tattoos on his bald head appears before him. The gigantic hammer and angry cloud over his face certainly gives Bilbo pause, until Lotho’s familiar head pokes over his shoulder.

“Move, will you?” Lotho commands curtly, pushing the door further open and slipping past his guard into the cabin. “Bilbo, this is Dwalin. Dwalin, Bilbo. They wouldn’t let me leave the palace unsupervised,” he mutters in an aside to his fellow hobbit. Bilbo can only assume he means Fili, or maybe the king.

“Right. Very nice to meet you.” Dwalin does not reply in kind, nor does he say anything at all. He simply glares at Bilbo while he is putting out another table setting and refuses to sit down. Bilbo nearly spills the tea, wilting under the dwarrow’s threatening gaze.

Just when Bilbo thought things couldn’t get more awkward, in strides Bifur without so much as a knock.

“Bif!” Bilbo is simultaneously elated by the timely interruption and perturbed to see his best friend, who still very much wants to pummel Lotho. Bifur exchanges a brief nod with Dwalin—the least aggressive Bilbo has seen the guard dwarrow’s face so far—strides over to the table, and stuffs an apricot biscuit in his gob, glaring daggers at Lotho all the while. 

“I’ll just… get another setting then.”

Lotho, blissfully unaware of or otherwise immune to Bifur’s glower of death, compliments the strong, floral brew and munches on one of Bilbo’s sour cherry scones.

“No offense,” Bilbo begins, tentative and wary, “but I was hoping that this might just be Lotho and I. You know—alone.”

“ _As if I’m going to leave you alone with this traitor_ ,” Bifur signs. Bilbo winces at the look on his face. Some of the finger signals are mussed by his anger.

Dwalin barks something sharply in Khuzdul, and then the two are hashing it out. Bilbo has absolutely no idea what is going on, but he is scared for the tea set’s life.

“ _I_ _dribî!_ ” Lotho shouts, drawing himself up to his fullest height. Dwalin obeys on command and bows his head slightly, and even Bifur stops his griping. 

Bilbo marvels at his cousin, who goes on to hold an entire argument in the language of dwarrows. He could be making half of it up or saying things with terrible pronunciation and grammar, for all Bilbo knows, but he communicates confidently as if he was born speaking it. 

Language-learning is an affinity particular to most hobbits; Bilbo himself knows three (and counting, including Iglishmêk!), but Khuzdul is famous for its difficulty. Lotho has taken such time and care to learn it. What else has Bilbo missed about his cousin, he wonders. 

Lotho looks more comfortable in his own skin than he did before their journey to Erebor. He wears his hair long and with pride. Bilbo seriously doubts that he will ever cut it again. There is a long, coiled braid starting near the base of his ear that Bilbo recognizes as a courting plait, from Bofur’s description earlier. He wears a bit of jewelry now, too. 

And _shoes. What in Aüle’s name—?_

Bifur raises both forefingers simultaneously near Bilbo’s face to get his attention. 

“ _I_ _’m listening_ ,” Bilbo signs back, raising his forefingers from right to left. “ _I don’t know Khuzdul_.” Bifur deflates slightly; looks like he had forgotten that tiny detail.

“You two can stay here, then,” Lotho proposes, switching back to Westron. “We’ll be back within the hour.” All three of them protest—Bilbo included, because the plan was to talk here—but he lets himself be ushered out the door anyway. He wonders wryly if Lotho’s paltry manners are a symptom of living with dwarven royalty, or if they were like that before all of this and had only worsened over time. 

“Where are we going?” Bilbo huffs.

The younger hobbit stuffs his hands in his pockets and shifts awkwardly, his earlier confidence shrinking somewhat. “The field house, your friend said. I told him we’re going to say goodbye.”

Bilbo jolts in his shock. “You want to see Myrtle.” Lotho’s nod is slow, but not uncertain.

They take their time, passing by the literal fruits of Bilbo’s labor in the fields on their way. Bilbo elaborates on his progress, the minutia that Lotho may not have received in his reports. Lotho concedes without dispute that he has been thoroughly trounced in the farming department. It’s just as well; he much prefers the heart of the mountain to its sunny exterior.

When they pass the carrot patches, Bilbo slows and looks over their feathery green stems with fondness. “Remember Farmer Brown’s rabbits?”

Lotho stops next to him and squints, shielding his eyes from the lowering sun. “The ones he passed off as wishing charms, yeah? He made a pretty penny off of stupid fauntlings.”

“Oh, c’mon—you never made a wish?” Bilbo teases. “Not even once?”

“I didn’t say that,” Lotho mutters, kicking at a clod of dirt in the grass.

Not for the first time these past few days, Bilbo laments for the typical childhood of a typical Shireling that Lotho _should_ have had, a charmed life that he himself had taken for granted. It shakes him to imagine growing up in such a hollow home, devoid of compassion or care. It isn’t like Lotho had many friends to soften the blow, either. The only one he can recall is a yellow-haired lass with whom the young hobbit had tagged along in their tween years. “Iris... Smallburrow?” he ponders out loud.

His cousin blinks and stares at him. “It’s Diggle now.”

Bilbo hums in understanding. “Strange, when they go off and get married, isn’t it?”

“Bently never minded. He’s good people.” At this, he smiles a little and shrugs. “Soon as I told her what I was doing, she said I should go for it. ‘Run for the mountains, don’t look back for a second!’”

“That’s the mark of a good friend,” Bilbo chuckles. 

Lotho peers sideways at Bilbo and frowns. “I should write her.”

After all this time, Bilbo wonders how and why hobbits ever came to be such homebodies. They are merry folk who love to share, so why do so few of them leave and explore the world? He suspects that more hobbits would like to travel—far more than would ever admit to it, for fear of ostracization.

He does not follow the trail of his own musings for long, because the sight of Lotho grunting and kicking off his shoes is the funniest sight he has seen in some time. Which is saying something, when you consider the multitude of impossibly-ridiculous facial expressions that Bo and Bif make on a regular basis.

The younger hobbit grumbles until Bilbo recovers enough from his amusement to inquire about the odd inclusion of footwear. It’s just so... unnecessary. He points out that the leather will only serve to weaken Lotho’s feet. His cousin acknowledges said fact, but apparently it makes him feel self-conscious to go barefoot at court, particularly when Dain’s men join their sessions. Bilbo must applaud him; for his part, he can’t imagine being the center of attention for so long without cracking. 

“Don’t they stare anyway?” he asks. “They’ve never seen our kind.”

This sets Lotho off on a barrage of complaints; Bilbo couldn’t stop him if he tried. The raven-haired hobbit is sick and tired of talking about the Shire and would much rather spend his days learning about Erebor’s history with Fili and Ori and Balin. 

They will have to discuss their homeland eventually, given that it _is_ the main purpose of their meaning, but for now, Bilbo finds himself enjoying Lotho’s sheer passion for dwarven culture, with all its youthful curiosity and vigor. Joy is a good look on him.

Naturally, when Fili comes up in conversation, he inevitably takes over the one-sided discussion. Bilbo is polite enough not to tease him (much) and Lotho doesn’t even bother to hide his inner romantic. “He’s perfect,” Lotho sighs, his face the picture of tortured bliss.

Bilbo bites his lip, digging his heel into the ground. “I’ve met someone,” he declares quietly. He _was_ aiming for casual… and hit the mark squarely on besotted.

“ _You_ —in love with a dwarrow?” His cousin’s face is the essence of smug. “This is priceless!” 

“It’s not official or anything!” Bilbo squeaks. “But—yes! He works in the palace, and he frequents the council sessions—maybe you know him?”

“ _Pfft_ ,” Lotho exhales through his teeth, a bubbly noise of uncertainty. “It’s hard enough remembering all of the courtiers, let alone our staff. Fat chance I’ve so much as heard his name. What does he look like?”

“Tall, dark hair, strong nose? The bluest eyes you’ve ever seen,” Bilbo sighs dreamily. “You couldn’t miss him.”

“You just described nearly half of the dwarrows in Erebor,” his cousin says drily. “Anything distinctive?”

He supposes it was too far-fetched to hope; perhaps the lens of attraction attunes him especially to Thorin over all other dwarrows. “Well, he’s there all the time, nearly every day. You must have seen him,” Bilbo insists. Lotho’s answering expression is skeptical, but he says he’ll keep an eye out for Bilbo’s mystery dwarrow at court.

All too soon, they are fast approaching the field house. When he sees Myrtle’s head, Lotho stops in his tracks, eyes growing wide and conflicted. He follows Bilbo, all the same, edging a little closer to the door. 

“I know, it’s strange,” Bilbo agrees. “I’ve been to see her several times, and it’s still odd to look at her at first. You don’t have to say anything,” he adds quickly, because his cousin’s face has retreated to that awful shade of pale and—worse still—he looks as though he might cry. “It is thoughtful enough that you came with me, cousin.”

It isn’t fair that Myrtle is gone, and he can never bring her back. But Lotho has come here of his own volition to face the consequences of his actions and to make amends, and that is enough for Bilbo. Not only that—he is tired of carrying around the weight of her death. It is high time to put the past behind them once and for all. 

But Lotho himself may not be so keen to move on. He flinches and stares at Bilbo. “How can you still call me that? After—everything.” The younger hobbit’s face, so lost and vulnerable, near breaks Bilbo’s heart. “I’m not your cousin. I’m not a Baggins,” he sniffs, trying and failing not to tear up. “I’m nothing.” 

Bilbo’s immediate compulsion is to comfort Lotho and to parry his self-depreciating barb. “Don’t you dare say that!” Bilbo snaps. He immediately regrets his tone because Lotho really does begin to tear up.

_I’m nothing_ , he says, plainly and without reservation, as though he is stating a simple fact of life. Bilbo wonders, in growing horror, how many times has Lotho heard those words uttered against him. How many times did it take for them to become ingrained as something the young hobbit knows to be unequivocally true?

Bilbo plucks his mother’s handkerchief from his breast pocket to dab at the young hobbit's damp, blotchy cheeks. He pleads, in a much softer voice, for Lotho never to repeat those words again, not out loud, not to himself, not at all. 

“Oh laddie lad,” he croons. “No one comes from nothing. Lest you forget, there’s love run through our veins. Baggins or not, Hobbiton or Underhill, we _are_ family. We’re two hobbits in a kingdom of dwarrows, and we’re all we’ve got on this side of the world.” Well, not _all_ they’ve got. But still.

He is ready to forgive and to let go, and he tells his cousin so. The ferocity of Lotho’s reciprocal hug makes Bilbo smile despite himself. They are starting to make a habit of this. 

Tentative hope overtakes the tears in his cousin’s stone-grey eyes. “After everything I’ve done? Even your—Myrtle?”

“Hmm. Me, maybe, but her, I dunno,” Bilbo teases, flicking his head up towards Myrtle. “What do you say, girl?”

He is about to laugh at his own wisecrack when Myrtle’s head begins to glow. She is bathed in a golden, misty light like that of the Eldar. And her voice—the one he had never expected to hear again—she speaks to him as if from another plane of time and space.

“ _You cry for me, oily one? Now_ that _is_ _a surprise.”_

Lotho screams, scrambling to get away and find cover. Meanwhile, Bilbo’s mouth hangs open wide with shock as he looks upon her. “Wha—how!?” he gasps, devoid of air. 

“ _Your wizard granted me speech, but long-term magic must be linked to a powerful charm. The true spell lays within your grasp. When you lost its protection, I could no longer guide you. Now that it has returned to you, we may share these last moments together in peace_.”

His mother’s kerchief. He blinks and gawks at the fabric clutched tight in his fingers, utterly confused. If Gandalf had not charmed the fabric himself... 

“ _Your mother wanted you to find the kind of happiness that only a true adventure can provide. Her wish was so pure and so strong that it remained embedded in the fabric long after her passing. This charm is yours to pass unto anyone you choose_.”

“But my mother wasn’t a witch,” Bilbo protests. He imagines Gandalf and Radagast, with their cooky way of waving wands and words; his mother certainly does not fit that image. He finds it hard to believe that she could cast any spell. And he doesn’t even bother to suggest that his _father_ could be associated in any way with sorcery. 

_“Not as such, you are right. But all hobbits—Harfoots, Stoors, and Fallohides alike—descend from the fae.”_

She laughs with a hint of a whinney at Bilbo and Lotho’s answering expressions. 

Unable to fight his curiosity, Lotho pokes his head over the hay bale he has been hiding behind, his fear temporarily abandoned. “The fair folk? That’s an old wives’ tale! No one knows where we come from exactly, but most people say we’re related to Men.”

Myrtle smiles at him, her eyes twinkling, visible even through the golden mist. _“All legends are born of truth, some more than others. Fae and hobbits alike are Yavanna’s chosen children; a_ _small bit of their magic lives on in each of you. Think of how abundant life is in the Shire, how strangely seasonable and consistent the weather tends to stay. How you may walk unseen when you wish.”_

Bilbo nods slowly. If he tries very hard, he can almost feel a sort of—presence in the fabric. It has always been there, nameless, easy to mistake for nostalgia or fondness. He approaches Myrtle once more and touches her muzzle, taking in its soft, fuzzy feel. “I am happy that I came here. My only regret is that I did not prevent your death.”

Then, Lotho takes a few tentative steps until he reaches Bilbo’s side, the last of his tears drying. “I am sorry I _caused_ it.” He means it, without a shred of vacillation.

“ _It is forgiven, little one_ ,” she tells him, bowing her graceful head. “ _My time had come, as it does for all living things. You have been paying a steep price_ ,” she murmurs knowingly. “ _Your days on Arda are far too short to spend wishing for things that will never be. Better to embrace all that you have and strive to right the many wrongs within your power_.” Lotho does not look particularly pleased by her sage advice, but he seems to take her words to heart.

Myrtle turns to Bilbo, dark eyes slowly blinking open and closed. “ _And now I must leave you both_.”

Bilbo makes a noise of anguish in his throat, clinging to her hair. He has held a growing notion of what is to come, but he has refused to let it invade the forefront of his thoughts—until now. “I don’t want you to go,” he whispers, desperate and feverish, threading his hands through her thick mane one last time. 

“ _All things wane, dear one_ ,” Myrtle tells him, sad and soft and sweet as she ever was, “ _all but one_.” Already, the golden light dims, her physical form dematerializing in Bilbo’s arms.“ _This spell is forever; though you no longer need me, my love shall be with you always_.” 

The light fades and Myrtle’s head disappears into thin air. Her voice lingers until the last of Gandalf’s portion of the spell breaks. 

“... _Farewell for now, dear Bilbo. Farewell with all our love_...”

Bilbo sags against the empty door and lets the fading sun’s warmth seep into him. He feels Lotho slump down beside him, still trembling. For a while, neither of them say anything; they simply sit and take in the cool Autumn air. 

A chime sounds shrill and clear from one of the lower hills. It can’t be the afternoon bell, which shouldn’t ring for at least another twenty minutes. Either way, they should be heading back soon; the others will be expecting them. He doesn’t know about Dwalin, but Bifur will be hot on their heels if they blow past the hour. 

Lotho shouts something in Khuzdul that is most definitely unsavory. “They’re here _early._ That’s just rude!” he growls. To quell Bilbo’s evident confusion, he explains that Erebor’s chief general and her men are returning to attend both the peace talks and the wedding. Lotho cannot afford to be late to meet Fili’s mother, for several reasons beyond making a good impression. Evidently, pissing her off could prove to be a fatal mistake.

Without hesitation, Bilbo nods and shows him to the lower stables. Bif will be furious at him for letting Lotho near any of his charges, but this is an emergency. “Take Falada; she’s the fastest.”

His cousin gratefully accepts help getting up onto the saddle of an energetic black mare with grey spots running down her powerful legs. “Send Dwalin to meet me. If he’s not halfway there already,” he mutters. His voice leaves no room for argument.

“That’s that, then,” Bilbo sighs, dismayed that their time has been cut so short. The two of them have yet to discuss Lotho’s strategy for the appeal to the Iron Hills delegation. Bilbo isn’t sure they will have another chance between now and then, assuming Thorin’s intel is correct.

“Write me if you need anything at all. And—Lotho?” The dark-haired hobbit’s gaze flickers down to him, partially-distracted by Falada’s testy nickering. “You can do this. They’d be crazy not to listen to you.” From what he has seen and heard, Lotho has begun to grow into a confident and capable young person. He can only hope that maybe, one day, Lotho himself will be able to recognize his own worth. “No matter what anyone says, I have faith in you.”

Falada is already yanking Lotho away, eager for an excuse to run wild. But Bilbo still manages to catch the glimmer of esteem in his cousin’s eyes before the two of them fade from sight.

The welcome bell stops ringing eventually, but the wait has just begun. 

* * *

Bilbo does not hear from Lotho for over a week, nor Thorin for that matter. 

To make matters worse, Bifur is busier than ever outfitting their men, and they both agree that Bilbo’s help in the stables would only raise suspicion. This leaves Bilbo and Bofur with only each other’s company, which would normally be no problem at all, except that the Bofur has begun on his hand-crafted Yule gifts. 

Each one of them is a work of art, painstakingly painted to perfection. Whether or not it is Bofur’s fault for undertaking such a monumental annual project—or having so many friends that he must start the process this early in the year—their mutual patience wears thinner by the day. The woodcarver claims that Bilbo is decimating his focus, and the hobbit’s stress-induced, snarky retorts are the opposite of helpful. It comes to a head in Bofur’s clipped suggestion that Bilbo should work out his issues and find something to do.

Bombur is more than glad of his appearance in the kitchens... until he has to physically stop Bilbo from pacing holes in the floor. Bilbo has consumed so many leftover spinach pies, he doesn’t want to see the leafy green ever again. Thankfully, the chef has a frightful number of children, all of whom are more than willing to pester Erebor’s second hobbit until he is physically and mentally exhausted. Entertaining the young striplings serves its purpose for a while, until the morning of Lotho’s appeal to Dain comes and goes, and _still_ nothing. 

The hours pass by in a restless blur. It is Ori who finally puts him out of his misery late that night, rousing Bilbo from his nap in the larder to escort him through the royal halls. “The lord-prince said it was urgent.”

They meet out on the parapets this time, and thankfully the corridor is private and unguarded. Ori rushes off, leaving him and Lotho to it.

His cousin barely checks that the coast is clear before he runs into Bilbo full-force and lets out a dazed and breathless exhale that shakes with pride-excitement-disbelief. “ _I did it_!” he whisper-shouts, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. His pale face breaks in the biggest, brightest smile Bilbo has ever seen him wear. “I convinced Dain _bloody_ Ironfoot!”

“So the Shire is safe!?” Bilbo asks, elated when his cousin confirms his success. “This is wonderful news!” 

They chatter in their own private celebration, and Lotho gives him the skinny on what transpired at court. “You have no idea how much wheeling and dealing I had to do to bring that stubborn, goat-riding knuckle-head around,” Lotho snorts. “I can’t believe he and Fili are related.”

Bilbo laughs and gives Lotho a hearty pat on the back. “You put the Shire-moot to shame. The Thain himself would be proud.” All things considered, this might be the most monumental contribution that any hobbit has made to international diplomacy since the Battle of Greenfields. It’s staggering to even think about.

“Yeah, well. Never let it be said I never did anything for those stuffy gaffers,” Lotho snarks quietly, beaming from ear to ear.

“I’m serious, Lotho. I’d wager you’ve done more for the Shire today than anyone ever has. And you did it for love.” That, Bilbo thinks, is far from the most terrible reason to do something of such great consequence.

Lotho rubs his arm, pinching at the fabric of his billowing white shirt. “I thought I was doing all of this for Fili, and I am, but…” His smile is still present, if muted somewhat. “...I think I did it for myself.”

Bilbo glows with unabashed pride for his cousin, who by all rights could have abandoned the Shire completely. He doesn’t think he could blame him, given the number of their kin who turned a blind eye to his suffering. There are a hundred things he could say in this moment, yet none of them quite fit the bill.

But, just as Myrtle said, all good things ebb and flow. Lotho’s smile slips away and he drums his fist on the parapet wall. “We have a bit of a problem...” _Oh no. You have_ got _to be kidding me._ “The plan was for Dain to send his own forces to the Shire, but General Dis has redirected some of ours from Ered Luin to start building outposts in Bree. She’s going in there to oversee them in person, right after the wedding.”

Bilbo fails to see how this is a problem; it sounds like their people will be protected much sooner than waiting on the Iron Hills reinforcements. 

“The Thain will be expecting an update on _you,_ Bilbo. All it takes is one mention of your first name—one letter gone wrong—and everyone will figure it out.”

Bilbo steadies himself on the wall. “Ohhhh dear.” _Deep breath in, deep breath out._ “We didn’t think this through, did we?”

“You mean _I_ didn’t,” Lotho grumbles guiltily. “I’ve caused nothing but trouble since we got here.”

“It’s alright, we can fix this.” It could be worse—it could be _much_ worse. “We come clean.” 

Lotho swears rather loudly and Bilbo doesn’t admonish him in the slightest. He is thinking much the same. 

“I know—but we don’t have a choice.” Dear sweet Green Lady, he hopes that Bifur’s mysterious sources are right about the whole marriage situation. “You have to ask for an audience with the royal family. We rip the bandage off, tell them all in one go. 

“Are you mad!? Fili’s mother will skewer me alive!”

“Have you got a better idea!?” Bilbo snaps. He feels just as upset and frustrated by all this.

His cousin shakes it off and reworks the plan. “...We could bend the truth a little.” 

If they frame this whole thing as a premeditated plan, agreed upon by both Lotho and Bilbo from the beginning, it might just work. Still, Bilbo feels conflicted about the idea of continuing with more dishonesty. If the look on Lotho’s face gives any indication, so does he. 

“What about Fili?” Bilbo asks gently. “Are you going to lie to him too? That’s no way to start a marriage, Lotho.”

The younger hobbit winces and shakes his head. “I’ve tried to tell him, but I can’t! Every time, I clam up and start sweating. He’ll hate me. Family is everything to him; if he finds out how despicably I acted—” Wordlessly, Bilbo wraps his cousin in a hug. The speed at which Lotho leans into it says that it is sorely needed. “He deserves better,” Lotho mumbles, hiding his face in Bilbo’s sleeve.

Bilbo has a hunch that the prince may know more than he is letting on, but he should hear the truth from Lotho himself; it is the principle of the thing. “If Fili loves you, he will understand. It might take time, but he will forgive you.” Bilbo gently pushes his cousin back to look him in the eye. “And if not, you will still have me. I will never run you off, do you hear me? Never.”

A hint of that elusive smile returns to the younger hobbit’s face. “I’m glad you’re here, cousin.” 

It warms Bilbo’s heart to hear Lotho address him as family once more, for family he is. “Here,” he murmurs, taking out his mother’s kerchief from his pocket. He knows what it means now, and exactly where it should go. Bilbo folds it carefully and wraps it in his cousin’s spindly fingers. Lotho stares at him in disbelief and squeezes it tightly to his chest. “You hang onto this, now. And when you tell Fili, know that you will have someone to support you the whole way.”

“I will—if he’ll still have me.” 

“Pish-posh, don’t give me that,” Bilbo amends flippantly. “He’s completely besotted with you. You’ve got your very own Prince Charming after all. I shall be very cross with you if I’m not invited to the wedding!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Lotho lets out a laugh and rakes a hand through his dark mane. “What about _your_ mystery suitor?” he counters, half-teasing, half-curious.

“Oh!” The older hobbit’s cheeks turn warm, and his eyes cloud with concern. “Actually, I’m beginning to worry; I haven’t seen him in almost a fortnight. I know he’s busy, but…”

His cousin hums in sympathy. “I can ask after him for you, see if anyone in the palace knows.”

“Would you? I’d really appreciate it. He’s—”

The sound of rapid footsteps and giggling alert both hobbits, who instinctively crouch down behind the parapets to hide. Bilbo doesn’t think they’re guards, or if they are, they are definitely engaging in disorderly conduct. With bated breath, he takes the first risky peep over the stone walls to see two figures in the courtyard below. One is a tall, red-headed lass—an elf, perhaps?—who bends down to give the shorter individual a kiss. Her dwarrow sweetheart has to stand up on his tiptoes to meet her.

When they part, Bilbo sighs in relief at the sight of a familiar face. “It’s just Kir,” he announces to Lotho, calling off the alert. “We’re safe.”

Lotho squints at the couple, smiling at their sweet exchange. “You mean Kili?”

“ _Kir_ ,” Bilbo corrects. There is no mistaking him: quiver full of arrows and scarcely a beard to speak of. “Odd lad, I must say. That’s Thorin’s nephew; we can ask him where he’s been—I do hope he’s alright.”

“ _THORIN?_ ” His cousin’s voice is strangled and cuts right through Bilbo’s concern. Lotho squeezes his arms in a vice grip, teeth clenched in a forced whisper. “The dwarrow you’ve been seeing is _Thorin!?”_

Bilbo frowns and cocks his head. “So you do know him?”

Lotho’s eyes are dazed, exasperated. “You had to go for Fili’s uncle, of all people. Couldn’t settle for a servant or a lord, nooo, you went straight for the king.” He lets go, mumbling something that sounds like “ _I_ _can’t believe this_.”

“What are you on about?” Folding his arms, Bilbo mentally prepares to tell his cousin off yet again; surely this is not the time to be having him on, when they’ve only just mended things. He had never even been inside the royal palace itself, much less for an audience with its sovereign leader. “You’re taking the mickey,” he counters. “Thorin is—”

_Oh dear_ . His throat constricts. If Kir is actually Prince Kili—Fili’s brother and the king’s nephew—that means Thorin really _is_ the king, and...

“—a massive idiot.” 

“Him, or you?” Lotho deadpans; his dark brows are raised and unimpressed. “I’m pretty sure one of those statements counts as treason.”

Bilbo slumps to the floor and rubs at his poor, abused temples. “You know, I really hate this place. Why did we come here again?”

His cousin’s answering smile is wry and wistful. “It grows on you.” 

King Under the Mountain— _his_ Thorin. Bilbo cannot reconcile the two. One is the sweet and somber blue-eyed dwarrow who plays the harp and takes Bilbo’s breath away. The other is a nameless, faceless figure sitting on a massive throne of carved stone. How can they be one and the same?

Though, that’s not quite true. The king is still a person of flesh and blood, with a family who adores him, subjects who admire and respect him, and friends who love him enough to put up with his crap. 

_Just like you and me._

Looking back, there were so many signs staring him right in the face all along. It wounds his pride a fair bit. More importantly, he cannot begin to comprehend what this means for their relationship. He had gone from dreading a life chained to royalty straight to falling in love with the bloody-damned king. 

Lotho presses a comforting arm against Bilbo’s. “So. What now?”

They’re going to need to alter the plan, for one thing. It would seem that everyone has some major explaining to do.

A wonderfully wicked idea forms in Bilbo’s head. “We’re going to fix this together. Tonight.” He side-eyes his cousin and grins. “I’m going to need that Mithril back.”

* * *

With Lotho’s directions and a bit of help from Dwalin—don’t even ask Bilbo how _that_ conversation went—he slips into the royal chambers otherwise undetected. Myrtle had informed him of his people’s inherent abilities, and he fully intends to exploit them now. He is starting to think that these clandestine nighttime trips to the palace would be a bit of good fun, if they weren’t bookended by stress-laden confrontations.

He takes a few moments to appreciate the grandiose space and style of Thorin’s room. The floors and walls could use a few colorful accents, but now is not the time to focus on interior design. 

When the dwarrow returns to his chambers, he is greeted with the sight of Bilbo Baggins standing in his drawing room, arms folded, slapping one hairy foot against the marble floor impatiently.

“ _Kakhf_ ,” he mutters.

“Quite,” Bilbo murmurs flatly, fixing the blue-eyed dwarrow with his most formidable glower. “Tell me, were you going to mention this little detail before or _after_ you introduced me to your family?” He draws out the silence, watching Thorin flounder. “Oh, that’s right, I forgot—we’ve already met. Let’s see, we’ve got _Kir_ —or should I say Kili? I thought he was certifiable, but no. He’s just a terrible liar. I’ve not actually interacted with Fili much, but he’s probably snogging my cousin senseless at the moment. Who else? Ah, your cousin Dwalin, lovely chap. _He_ threatened to take my head off with a mace just now. Have I left anyone out?”

“Well, there’s Dis—” Thorin starts. He is immediately quelled by a single look.

“Nice touch, getting everyone to lie for you—my own best friend, even. Was that an official order, or did they volunteer?” The dwarrow shrinks back from his icy tone and Bilbo sighs. “I’m sorry, that was harsh. I feel a bit like a tosser for not having figured it out earlier.”

Thorin rushes to contradict him. “No, Bilbo, _I_ am sorry. I deliberately deceived you. I never should have let this get so out of hand.”

“Good lord, Thorin, I understand what it’s like to make a mistake and get carried away.” He slips out of his cloak and drops the garment on one of Thorin’s fluffy armchairs. “I haven’t been entirely forthcoming with you either.” As the hobbit starts undoing his coat, Thorin gasps. His eyes widen with every undone button—he looks as though he may have an aneurysm if Bilbo continues. 

The mithril shimmers in candlelight, dancing its way into the king’s view. Bilbo holds the soft, starry chemise by its hem, smiling demurely up at him. “The King Under the Mountain sent me this beautiful gift. I was supposed to marry his young nephew, you see. But I fell head-over-heels for the king himself, who had posed as a servant, and I could not bear the thought of being bound to anybody else.” 

Thorin’s breath hitches and Bilbo is unable to suppress the amused rumble that takes up residence in his chest. “Thankfully, my cousin had already taken up the prince’s offer. There were complications and misunderstandings and a whole lot of tears—and I _really_ don’t want to go into the details again. Suffice it to say, we came to an agreement. I have a new arrangement to propose: from now on, there will be two hobbit ambassadors to ensure the Shire’s interests in Erebor.”

Thorin pretends to think about it for all of three seconds. “The crown _might_ be amenable.” Bilbo’s answering laughter peels like a bell. “However, if I might be so bold as to make one small amendment...” The dwarrow takes both of Bilbo’s hands in his own. “The king from your tale would rather be no king at all than lose the favor of the adventurous hobbit who entered his castle like a thief in the night and stole his heart. Might this wicked burglar be convinced to give him a chance, to woo him thoroughly and to know him fully?” 

The thief in question answers him with a kiss, tender and chaste and altogether lovely. 

* * *

Durin’s Day, the celebration that will unite the Shire and Erebor, comes and goes in a breeze. As it turns out, Lotho’s dreaded confession to Fili didn’t make the dwarrow so much as bat an eye. The prince scoops up his sneaky, lying hobbit and marries him anyway. 

Their union is a joyful one, full of raucous dancing, merry laughter, and the finest feast Erebor has ever seen. As the raven-haired Shireling makes his vows, Belladonna Took’s kerchief protrudes proudly from his pocket for all to see. Not since his parents’ lifetime had Bilbo witnessed a happier couple than Lotho and Fili. He _may_ have shed a tear (or ten).

Bilbo’s days have fared much the same as they had since coming to live in the dwarven kingdom, with a few notable exceptions. Two hobbits can now be found within the palace walls on a given day. It is a major adjustment to be consulted in matters of the court beyond farming. Much to everyone’s surprise, Bilbo elects to continue his duties in the field and to continue living with his roommates for the time being. He does not plan on giving up the things that bring him joy, romantic relationship or none. 

Bifur and Bofur haven’t changed a bit. The two of them assure Bilbo that he will always have a home with them, whatever he decides. Bofur teases Bilbo about his love life while Bifur offers actual practical help (he insists that Bilbo better start learning Khuzdul in addition to perfecting his Iglishmek). They both develop a habit of breaking into romantic woodwind ballads on a whim, which brings either pure delight or great dismay to anyone within earshot. Bilbo had reamed them out something awful for keeping Thorin’s royal secret for so long. But, all in all, it worked out for everyone in the end. 

Powering through his own disappointment, Thorin patiently allows Bilbo the time he needs to process all that has happened between them. They steal moments together between council sessions and Bilbo’s bedding down of the fields for winter, keeping their relationship as low-key as is possible, given that one of them is the king and is constantly harassed by his family to make a move besides.

That doesn’t stop him from showering Bilbo with gifts. So many, in fact, that by the time winter’s end rolls around, Bofur and Bifur complain about the amount of space they take up in their shared quarters.

On one such occasion, a parcel of crocheting materials falls from its precarious position on top of its gift pile (that is only the one on Bilbo’s dresser. There are at least five others). “Ye should move all this junk to _his_ quarters!” Bofur declares. “He’s the bloody king, inne? Can’t ’e make ye yer own fancy guest room or sommat? Just fer—whatever this is.” One of the metal needles falls from Bofur’s fingers and jabs his exposed toe, wringing a pained yelp from the woodcarver. “That’s it! I swear, if that bloody bugger doesn’t make a move soon…”

Bifur is laughing at his incensed cousin, which never helps. Bilbo apologizes profusely, red as ruby, and gathers the stray materials. He admits that the gift-giving is getting a bit out of hand—so much that he decides to do something about it when he walks with Thorin this afternoon.

♪ 32:00: [ Bilbo and Thorin’s Love Theme ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_bYldqEjOUA) ♪

They stroll over the thin layer of frost that permeates Bilbo’s orchards-in-progress, stopping a while next to the future pear trees. Bilbo worries at the hem of his winter cloak; his shivers transcend the chill of a mild winter day. It does not take long for Thorin to notice his nervous behavior. 

“What troubles you, _sanûrzuda_?”

“Well.” Bilbo takes a deep breath and leaps. “It’s just that you’ve bade me a number of compliments lately. And you’ve given me so many wonderful gifts.” He gestures to the dazzling necklace that Thorin had given him for Yule. The dwarrow crafted it himself: tiny gemstones in cool tones and neutrals, fitted into thin, gracefully-woven strands of silver. Not big or tacky in the slightest, and easily hidden away in the folds of his scarf; it is just the thing that Bilbo would have picked for himself, had he ever thought to wear jewelry. 

“Unless I am sorely mistaken—and if I am, I’m terribly sorry—we, that is, you…”

“Has my work stolen your words again?” Thorin chuckles, raising his gloved hand to smooth a thumb over Bilbo’s brow bone. Such a light, fluttering whisper of a touch should not affect him so, but it puts him in a right state nonetheless.

“Do not tease me,” Bilbo pleads, lowering the dwarrow’s fingers with a sigh. “If you are serious about this—thing between us, I would know… so that I may respond in kind.”

Thorin moves closer so that their foreheads touch, just far enough away that Bilbo can see and feel the ghost of his breath but cannot reach his lips. “I am sincere in my love for you. Believe me when I say that I would shout for all Arda to hear how I love you, Bilbo Baggins.” 

This is far from the first time that Thorin has used those particular words, and still they set his heart aflutter. “Oh, good. We have that in common then,” he laughs breathlessly.

The dwarrow looks as though he very much wants to catch Bilbo in a kiss, but he narrowly refrains. “We have not discussed your plans for the field next year. Our original contract ends, come Spring.”

“I haven’t given it much thought,” Bilbo answers honestly. Truly, his loose agreement made with Thorin and Bofur’s prodding seems years ago rather than a few short months. “It would be nice to see the Shire again, for old times’ sake,” he admits.

He recalls incoming news from the Shire, which he is now privy to at court; Dis and Lotho have been making remarkable progress with security. He has also exchanged letters with friends and relatives, including Primula and Drogo. He missed their little Frodo’s birth back around harvest time. 

Thorin’s smile is earnest, if tinged with sorrow. “The way you speak about your homeland… it sounds greater than the halls of Mahal and Yavanna combined, truly heaven on Arda. I would not keep you from it.” 

“Oh, Thorin.” Bilbo smoothes the backs of his fingers along the dwarrow’s bearded cheek. “I’m not going anywhere, not for a long while.”

“But you will.” This may be the only time Bilbo has heard his voice grow so rough with emotion. “You carry my heart with you, wherever you go, dear thief. I only ask this one thing: would you be so good as to take care of it awhile?”

Sincerity and longing belie Thorin’s weak jest, so powerful in their fervor that Bilbo aches. He knows better than to respond with naught but a glib quip of his own, so he bends upward to kiss the dwarrow, equal parts comfort and answering passion. In this, Bilbo’s true answer blooms.

He continues their banter, searching his pockets one by one until a furtive smile sneaks its way past the overly-dramatic roll of Thorin’s eyes. “I’m sure I have nothing of value to give a king such as yourself in return, for safekeeping. Let’s see… Nope. Not even a pocket handkerchief.” 

Thorin butts Bilbo’s head and huffs an amused exhale. “Are you _sure_?”

Bilbo shakes his head, looking up at Thorin through his lashes. “An equal exchange will have to do, I’m afraid—my heart for yours?”

Dwarrow and hobbit both can agree to that.

* * *

**_Five Months Later_ **

The Shire calls to him in springtime. Its splendor remains unparalleled; throngs of fauntlings toddle about on their first walks, just waiting to discover nature’s bounty. Everything here radiates with life, from tumbling hill and sprouting field to budding tree and blooming flower. 

“Bilbo, lad! We’re so glad to have you back!” The Thain and the entire Shire moot greets him with rounds of applause and glad tidings. They have no shortage of sharp words for his and Lotho’s switcharoo. Yes, Bilbo half-heartedly obliges them, it was all very conniving. At least they have agreed to keep the details of his misadventures on the down-low—for however long that will last, knowing how fast word gets around here.

Bilbo is glad to _be_ back. He has a number of stops to make, if only for the sake of politeness, and thus he escapes at the very first opportunity. Onward to reunite with actual friends and family.

“You’ve lost weight,” Auntie Linda remarks.

“I beg your pardon!” Bilbo splutters back, affronted. The number of Bombur’s stews and baked goods he had consumed over the winter should say otherwise. He will have to rectify this as soon as possible.

Frodo Baggins is the cutest little button of a lad. His dark curls remind Bilbo fondly of their mutual cousin. He has wondered who Lotho’s father might be, though it matters little. The trials that they have shared are what bond them as cousins, not by blood but by spirit. 

Bilbo wishes for this tiny hobbit, new to the world and just itching to get out of his cradle, that he will find a kindred soul one day, someone to share in adventures of his own.

The sound of familiar voices grace Bilbo’s ears through Primula and Drogo’s open window. He hadn’t meant to give his traveling companions the slip for quite so long, but they appeared to be doing just fine under Hamfast’s informative guidance.

Kili waves to Bilbo from outside of the inn across the way. He nudges Bifur, who signs back that Bilbo _had better hurry his arse up_ , _else there’ll be no second breakfast left_. 

The scar on Bifur’s forehead is healing nicely after their visit to Lord Elrond’s healing wing in Rivendell. Though his ability to speak Westron was never restored, the horsemaster is more expressive than ever. Bifur is immensely glad to be rid of the cumbersome metal shard; more importantly, he is able to share the classic dwarrow greeting of head-butting with his fellows again. And look—he can even wear hats now!

Bilbo gives his love to his cousins before heading out to meet the others. They urge him to make his stops and get a move on, to which the hobbit heartily agrees. It is time to go home.

It isn’t far from here, not at all. The winding roads of Underhill give way to Hobbiton, the perfect mix of prim and proper gardens with flowers gone wild. 

Just there, up the path and beyond the weathered mailbox, lies a circular door once painted forest green. It is now painted over in an unflattering shade of puce, but Bilbo knows it anyhow.

Bag End.

He balks at the sight of freshly-planted ferns; most of the wildflowers have been ripped out and replaced with more manicured greenery. Bilbo shudders to think what might have happened to the smial’s interior. He steels himself and knocks thrice upon the door.

A minute passes. The door finally opens on Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. “Lobelia,” he greets her curtly, folding his arms. 

If there were no neighbors about to witness her rudeness, Bilbo thinks she would shut it right back in his face. “What are you doing here?” she mutters furiously. The lady-hobbit keeps her voice low and mirrors Bilbo’s stance. “You’re supposed to be married and gone.”

“Not even a ‘hello,’ or a ‘welcome back’?” His voice is dry as paper. It seems that the Thain has indeed kept his word not to spread gossip around yet; she does not know.

“The deed is mine.” Lobelia’s eyes narrow and sharpen in focus. “You can’t just waltz back in here and expect a warm welcome. Not my fault if the dwarves didn’t want you.”

“Glad to see where your priorities stand. Is there anything else you want to say to me?” Bilbo cannot be bothered to keep his voice down, nor to hide his disdain. “No? You’re not even going to ask after your son?” 

Lobelia huffs. “Lazy thing. Sent a letter, said he won’t be back for planting. Makes no difference—Lotho’s never had a knack for planting. That new hand Otho trained up is well worth the money—should have hired him years ago.” 

“You don’t care how he’s been or what he’s doing?” Bilbo stares at her, waiting for a sign of motherly affection or concern. _Anything_. If it is there, buried somewhere way deep down, it never makes itself known. “Aren’t you angry that he didn’t invite you to the wedding?”

At that, her dark brows raise a fraction. “Married? To _who_ —a dwarf?” She makes a noise of disgust when Bilbo hums in the affirmative. “Fool boy. He was always on about their kind. Affairs of passion are fleeting; I doubt it will last.” A taste of bitterness seeps through Lobelia’s words. “He’ll have to settle for whatever poor lass will take him, if he ever comes crawling back.”

There are _so_ many things wrong with the horse dung that Lobelia has just spewed—possibly the most offensive among them being her suggestion that dwarven marriage vows are meaningless words that can somehow be shattered like glass—and Bilbo doesn’t have time to pick the rest of them apart one by one. His anger has been steadily rising to a boil ever since she opened the door. 

“ _Your son_ is the reason that Hobbiton has been spared from goblin attacks, not a single death this year. And, for your information, his _husband_ is the Crowned Prince of bloody damned Erebor!” He doesn’t care if the neighbors are staring, though his original intention was not to cause a scene.

Lobelia pales, gripping the doorway frame for support. “He—he can’t be? _You_ were...”

Bilbo is not going to go through the whole story again. “Despite your attempts to crush his dreams and his talents, he has made something of himself.” That fact is no small miracle, if Lobelia’s current attitude is but a tiny sample of what the environment Lotho grew up in. “He is a fine young hobbit, worthy of all the love and happiness in the world.”

When she shows no sign of any coherent response, Bilbo decides that this conversation is over. He doesn’t even want to step inside the hobbit hole, to see the old place changed and ruined. Instead, he will carry the memories of the way it once was, so vivid he could paint them.

“As for this old smial, you can have it. I hope it’s worth the loss of the amazing person you created.” Lobelia’s face remains devoid of any tangible emotions, relief, guilt, or otherwise. 

“I don’t know what happened to you—either of you—but I’m sorry,” he whispers at last. “Honest to Eru, I hope you find some way to make peace and live with it. Goodbye, Lobelia.” 

When Bilbo turns his back, the door closes with a soft click. He strides down the path until the oppressive and melancholy shell of Bag End disappears behind him. He lets it fade from sight and memory, and meanders back towards the inn across the pond. 

The faint chorus of honking overhead signals the return of the geese. Out on the water’s glassy surface, Bilbo sees the rippled reflection of their large flock, come in with the Spring to hatch their goslings. He has always wondered how they fall in step with one another, how their wings beat in perfect synchrony.

Bilbo grins and wishes them a fond farewell. He has his own gaggle to find. 

They are going home.

* * *

_You do not have to be good,_

_You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting,_

_You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves._

_Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine._

_Meanwhile, the world goes on,_

_Meanwhile, the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes,_

_Over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers,_

_Meanwhile, the wild geese, high in the clean blue air are heading home again._

_Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,_

_The world offers itself to your imagination._

_Calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting,_

_Over and over announcing your place in the family of things._

  
  


~ _The End ~_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And that’s a wrap! Wow, this fic took over my brain during the last two months. If you couldn’t tell, I have taken immense pleasure in writing this story and nurturing a few of Tolkien’s beloved characters. Special thanks to AB for all of your help with the editing process!
> 
> Around the bend... 
> 
> As mentioned above, I have a companion piece from Fili’s POV in the works. This one takes a much closer look at Lotho’s character development as well as the rest of our beloved dwarrow gang. It’s gonna be super saucy—let’s just say that Fili and Bilbo are very different people. ;D
> 
> Let me know in the comments if you would like to see this story turned into a podfic! I’ve been toying with the idea, mostly because I have so much fun mimicking James Nesbitt’s stupidly-charming voice as Bofur.
> 
> Once again, thank you reading this story to the end. Leave a kudo and/or review if you enjoyed! I always appreciate feedback to improve my writing in future. :)
> 
> Stay safe, and take with you from this story all of the love and hugs you can carry. <3 <3 <3


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